


nothing you say can make me breathe

by Sylv



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylv/pseuds/Sylv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma's memories return, but they do not feel like her own. Her mind is a mess of conflicting pictures and stories, and now a pirate (good, bad, somewhere in between?) is rushing her off to a fairy tale land that apparently needs her to save the day. Again.</p><p>[Post season 3 winter finale, the Black Fairy is a looming threat on the horizon, Emma thinks she might be going insane, and a certain Killian Jones isn't helping her sort things out one bit.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bradypnea

Emma is very, very distracted by the man sitting on a stool in her kitchen right now.

And it isn’t just his appearance that’s distracting, although in other circumstances she wouldn’t be ashamed of openly staring at him. All the leather is a little weird, but he has bright blue eyes and dark, feathery hair that anyone would want to run their hands through.

No, Emma is distracted by the fact that this man who showed up at her door out of the blue has been nagging her for days to listen to him, and he just won’t go away. So far she has been lucky in the fact that his popping up has been when she was alone; outside of her apartment building on the way back from the grocery store, at the café she stopped at for lunch the other day, in the bar where she and some of her coworkers were going to meet up for a drink. Every time she spots him, she furiously tells him that if he doesn’t stop following her around she is going to call the police, but the threat doesn’t deter him at all. At this point in the conversation he usually bows out with a frown, and she runs into him again the next day.

She is incredibly frustrated with herself that she hasn’t informed the cops about him yet, but somehow she can’t bring herself too. He always backs off when she asks him to despite the urgency in his voice. And he’s so attractive. She finds herself watching the way his shoulders move under his clothes when he walks away, and hates herself for it.

He has even begun invading her dreams. She will wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, with his face burning against her eyelids, and no amount of tossing and turning will help her get back to sleep. Her work is suffering, and when a coworker commented on the bags under her eyes, she told herself very firmly that it was time to take care of this problem.

Today, after dropping Henry off at a friend’s house for the evening, Emma had found him lounging on the steps of her apartment building. His eyes lit up when he saw her, as they always did, and Emma finally snapped.

“Follow me,” she said to him shortly, letting herself inside and practically stomping her way up the three flights of stairs. He trailed after obediently, and it was with gritted teeth and tight shoulders that she let him inside.

“One chance. You get once chance to say what you want to say, and then you get the hell out of my life.”

He agreed immediately and settled himself down on a stool in the kitchen, looking around the room with interest. If she was lucky, he would say what he needed to, and she could kick this nut out before Henry got back home. He would never need to know.

So now Emma is shuffling around, putting her keys away and placing her purse on the kitchen table, able to feel his gaze burning a hole in her, even when her back is turned.

Eventually she runs out of excuses to keep ignoring him and turns around, arms crossed and not sitting down. She can feel her skin prickling and is fully prepared to knee him where it hurts again and throw him out by his ridiculous leather jacket.

He smirks and makes a vague gesture to her coffee maker. “It is customary to offer your guest a drink, yes?”

Emma does not find him amusing at all, and she hopes he gathers through her glare that she will not be making any effort to make him comfortable in her home. Not when she’s almost one hundred percent sure he’s either a criminal or an escapee of the mental ward.

He licks his lips, and that is also very distracting.

“Emma…” he begins, much more sincerely, and then stops, confusion flitting across his features. She bristles at his use of her name, positive that she had never told him what it was. He doesn’t continue, and she glowers at him.

“Talk. How do you know my name, who are you, and what the hell do you want?”

“Killian Jones,” the man supplies, that soft smile gracing his features, that one that she has come to know so well over these past few days. “And we came to know each other quite well, in the past.”

She snorts. “I’m pretty sure I would remember an eyeliner wearing leather fetishist, but nice try.”

The man—Killian, now—frowns at her, his voice reproving as he continues. “Come now Swan, you promised I could say my piece. I shall leave you alone afterwards, if that is your wish, but I will not leave until then.”

“Fine, out with it.” His tone hints at a rather long story, so Emma relaxes her defenses minimally and sits, not too close.

“Your family is in danger,” is the beginning, and Emma rolls her eyes—apparently he is still trying to peddle that crap—but stays silent and allows him to continue. “I was sent here to find you and bring you back so that we can rescue them before it is too late.”

Emma can’t stop herself from interrupting here. “Back? Back where? England? Ireland, Scotland? Some bleak and gray country across the ocean? No thanks.”

Killian shakes his head at her. “As per usual I only understand half of what you are saying. But no, back to the Enchanted Forest. Your parents were born there and grew up there, and everyone has returned.” He searches her gaze. “There was a town, Storybrooke, where everyone lived for almost thirty years, forgetting who he or she was, where they came from. And then you arrived, and everyone remembered who they were. You saved them.”

“And you know this because you lived in this fictional town too.”

“Fictional no, although according to Regina it is no longer there. And I didn’t arrive until much later, when you had already restored all the memories, but believe me, I have been regaled with the entire tale many, many times. Your mother is particularly fond of telling it.”

“My mother.”

“Indeed. Even your father has begun to tire of the story.”

Emma blinks, incredulity rising as heat in her chest. “Let me get this straight. You know my parents—my parents who gave me up for adoption and have never once tried to find me again—and they told you that they lived in a place called the Enchanted Forest, but then went somewhere named Storybrooke, but are now back in the Enchanted Forest?”

“Correct.”

“And they need me to, what, rescue them? From… something?”

“The Black Fairy to be exact, love. She was biding her time, apparently; bloody demonic wench waited a year before she made her move.”

Emma fervently wishes that she hadn’t put her keys away, sure she would feel much better with something hard and sharp in her hands. She can see, when he moves just so, that there is a sheath hanging about his waist, and if he really is unstable, she would bet that there is a real sword in it. “You expect me to believe that my fictional family lives in a place where an evil fairy is threatening them?”

Killian leans forward, and Emma instinctively leans back. “You’re the Savior, Emma, the product of True Love. You have magic that even Regina was wary of, and she cast a curse that ruined the realm and froze time in Storybrooke for decades. If anyone can save them, it’s you. You simply need to get your real memories returned. I can do that.”

At this, the anger that has been simmering under Emma’s skin boils over. “Who are you to walk in here and tell me this? To presume to enter my home, disrupt my life, endanger my son just because you have this fantasy in your head that I am who you think I am?”

He looks hurt, and Emma can’t help but viciously think _good_.

“If you had your memories back, you would know. You would remember me, and what has happened to all the people that you care about. This,” he sweeps his arm about the apartment, soft yellow paint on the walls, a well worn couch. “None of this is real. What you remember with your son, none of it is real, and I know that you would want to know the truth. That is who you are.”

“And you’re going to tell me the truth. You’re going to walk into my life and tell me that what I have with my son isn’t real. My memories with my son, of throwing him birthday parties, walking him to school, helping him with his homework; everything about that is a lie? How dare you. _How dare you!_ ”

He flinches back at her intensity, and she feels a flush creep up the back of her neck, coloring her cheeks. He reaches out to her, and she can’t control the volume or pitch of her voice when she says, “No!”

“Emma, you have to listen to me, love. Have I told you a lie yet? Listen to me, love, have I?”

He sounds desperate, and he keeps calling her that little nickname. It’s so familiar, he acts so familiar with the way he talks, the way he even _moves_ around her and she can’t stand it, but, but—

The thing is, he _isn’t_ lying. Emma knows what a lie sounds like, even the smoothest and most well rehearsed, and this man, this Killian Jones, is telling the truth in every fiber of his being. There is only one option left.

“You’re nuts,” she says to him, shifting subtly so that she has her weight distributed evenly, only perching on the edge of her stool now. She is still struggling to get her voice back under control. “You’re totally insane. Savior? True Love? _Magic?_ What the hell did you think that I was going to do, listen to this story and believe every word you said?”

A small voice inside of her says that she probably shouldn’t be antagonizing the guy if he really is as crazy as he seems, but he only looks disappointed when he says, “I had hoped that—“

It’s at this moment that the doorknob rattles, and Emma’s heart leaps up into her throat. She shoots forward, intending to stop him from coming in, to heft him over her shoulder and sprint down the stairs, to do _something_ , but she isn’t fast enough.

“Mom?” Henry calls, closing the door behind him. “Jeff got sick, so his mom brought me back. We were hanging out and he threw up all over his Xbox.”

He comes up short, keys still in his hands, coat hanging off one shoulder, and stares at Killian. His eyes flick between the two of them, calculating, and it isn’t the first time that Emma has told herself she must be the worst parent in the world.

“Hello,” Henry ventures, slowly setting his coat on the table along with his set of keys. “Uh, mom?”

Before she can get a word in, Killian stands up and approaches her son. “Hello Henry,” he says, and the hair on the back of Emma’s neck stands up. There is no way he could know Henry’s name.

“Good to see you again, mate. I was just having a talk with your mom here.”

Henry’s eyes are wide, and they shift over to Emma, who forces herself into action. “This is Killian,” she manages, moving so that her body is between them, even if it means that her back is to the insane one. “He was just leaving. He thought I could help him with something, but it turns out I can’t.”

She knows immediately that she divulged too much information, because Henry perks up a bit and questions, “What does he need help with? How does he know who I am?”

“Nothing important.” She turns to face Killian, shielding her son with her body. “He’s leaving. Now.”

Killian reaches into his jacket, and for a terrifying heartbeat Emma is sure that he is going to pull out a gun, shoot them both where they stand. Instead, it’s a small glass vial. She lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she had been holding, and almost doesn’t hear him when he says, “I can prove it.”

Henry steps out from behind her and Killian allows him to take the vial, to inspect it closely. There is liquid in it, sloshing around, and a vague glow is emanating from it, as though it is producing its own light. But she must be seeing things, because that’s impossible.

“I’m going crazy now too,” she mutters, staring. “It must be contagious.”

“I had hoped that I could persuade you on my own, but I wouldn’t have survived for three hundred years without learning to utilize a back up plan. I have been assured that that there will break the curse and bring back your true memories.” Killian’s face is open and earnest, and god, things would be so much easier if he was lying to her.

“Mom, it’s glowing.”

Emma ignores Henry’s comment, straightening back up to face Killian, brain completely passing over the ‘three hundred years’ comment. There is only so much she can attempt to process from the box of crazy at once. “What exactly do you expect me to do with this?”

He looks taken aback for a moment, as though the answer is obvious. “I expect you to drink it.” He nods to Henry. “Both of you, preferably.”

Emma can feel her eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline at that. “Because I drink liquids from strange, crazy men every day. And you think I’d let that anywhere near my son? How do I know that you aren’t trying to poison us, or knock us out somehow?”

He spreads his hands wide in a silent plea, and she notices for the first time that his left hand is stiff, awkwardly placed. He seems to notice her looking and quickly drops his hands back to his sides, something like fear in his expression.

“What do you mean curse?” Henry presses, much more at ease in the situation than Emma is and capturing Killian’s attention once more. “What do you mean real memories?”

Killian takes the time to fill Henry in, and though Emma does not like them talking one bit, it gives her a chance to look at the bottle for herself. It lets off a comfortable warmth in her hands, and feels so light that if she wasn’t looking she couldn’t be sure it was there. The purple glow pulses slowly, shifting inside the vial and Emma doesn’t know what on earth it is, but she does know that there is no way she or Henry will be drinking it.

As Killian is wrapping up his story, Henry enthralled just as he is with all fantastical tales, Emma slides over to the sink in the kitchen. She glances back at the two of them; neither is paying her much attention. Killian just seems relieved that someone is listening to him, as though what he’s saying could even be within the realm of possibility.

As quietly as she can, she works the cork back and forth, twisting it this way and that until it comes out fully with a small _pop_. She flinches at the noise, and sees that it has drawn their attention back to her.

“Mom? What’re you—?”

Emma goes for it, tipping the glass bottle over the sink, but before she can blink or dump the stupid thing down the drain, Killian is there, shoving her aside and grabbing the vial. His eyes are wild, electric blue, and for the first time Emma is truly afraid of him. She backs away while he leans forward against the counter, head hanging down so that his hair obscures his eyes, sucking in breaths as though he just prevented the end of the world.

The quiet is deafening. Emma inches away from him, calculating how long it would take for her to get to Henry and be out the door, and if she could do that without him going for that sword of his first.

Henry ends up being the one who moves first; he walks over to Killian and places a hand on his left arm. Killian jumps and stares down at him as though he has never seen a kid before. He grips his left hand, almost self-consciously, and Emma feels her heart skip a beat.

“What happens if we drink this, Killian?”

Killian clutches the bottle tighter. “Everything that I told you about, Storybrooke, your mom’s parents, the curse that the Evil Queen sent; you’ll remember it all.”

Henry’s eyes flick over and meet Emma’s. He doesn’t look away from her when he asks, “The other memories that you say are fake, the ones with me and my mom… are they going to disappear?”

Killian raises his head, and Emma is blown away by the openness in his eyes, that familiarity creeping back in. “I don’t know.”

The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. “No, absolutely not. I don’t care who you think you are, or what you think you know, you can take that bottle of whatever it is and leave. Right now.”

“Mom, I—“

“Henry, go to your room.”

“Mom!”

“Now.”

He slouches off, irritation buzzing off his skin, dragging his backpack behind him. Killian watches him go for a moment before turning the full force of his gaze back to Emma.

“Emma, love.”

She puts up her hand, stalling him before he can get any further. “I don’t know how you found us, and how you know things about us but I no longer care. You’ve said what you needed to say, now get out.”

Killian weakly holds up the vial. “Try it.”

“I’m still not convinced that you aren’t trying to poison us. I’ve asked you nicely to get out of my apartment.”

“What if he drinks some of it first!” comes Henry’s voice. A sliver of his face can be seen from behind the cracked door.

“Henry! Close the door! Now!”

Killian grins. “Perfect idea, mate. Can’t refuse after you’ve seen that I’m fine once I drink it.” He tips his head back and swallows some. Emma watches closely, but there are no immediate reactions. “See? Alive as ever.”

Emma narrows her eyes at him. “Some poisons are slow acting. What if you end up dead in the morning?”

“Then you won’t have to drink it, will you?”

There’s a challenge in his eyes, and Emma fights the old urge that surges up at that, clamoring that she will be the last one to back down, give her the stupid drink she’ll chug it all—and then the motherly voice that tamps down firmly and tells her to shut up and do the rational thing.

“No.”

Killian stalks forward then, invading her personal space as he hadn’t since that first day when he had kissed her. He leans down so they are on the same level and says, “You wouldn’t leave a poor man out to die in the cold, love.”

 _Shit_. Emma turns away from him, that hot, spicy breath on her cheek and snaps, “You can sleep on the couch.”

When she reaches her room she watches him out of the corner of her eye. He shrugs out of his jacket, revealing a vest and shirt underneath. His shirt is barely buttoned, showing a rather large stretch of chest that Emma is itching to run her fingers over. As if he can feel her watching, he turns with a leer, hand going to the buttons, slowly, slowly.

Emma snaps her door shut, and only afterwards realizes that it is nine, and there is no way she will be sleeping at this hour.

Or at all tonight, if images of that hand taking clothes off continue running through her head, or maybe that hand wandering somewhere else, cradling the back of her head, dancing down her spine, maybe working its way under the waistband of her jeans.

“Stop it, Emma,” she growls to herself, and flops onto her bed over the covers.

When she opens her eyes it is a little after eight on a Sunday morning. She rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand and stretches, sighing when her muscles sink into relaxation. She grasps the hair tie on her bedside table and pulls back the tangle of her curls, a smile curving her lips. It isn’t until she looks down and sees that she fell asleep in her clothes that yesterday rushes back to her.

Insane yet undeniably attractive leather man.

Bringing him into her apartment.

Henry meeting him.

The _glowing_ liquid.

Emma practically runs to her door, wrenching it open. She doesn’t see anything, so maybe it was a crazy dream, maybe she imagined the whole thing and she can wake Henry up to get him started on his homework—

She barely stops herself from tumbling forward onto the cushions of the couch because there is a man lying there, leather pants still on, completely shirtless, just opening his eyes and blinking in the light.

“Swan,” he smiles sleepily up at her, reaching for her face. She jerks back as he sits up, expression unreadable. His mouth twists. “Alive and well this morning, as you can see.”

“Unfortunately,” she quips, hands up by her temples. He doesn’t make a move to get closer to her, and there is a small twinge of appreciation at that. She thinks for a minute and spins on her heel. “I’m going to take a shower. Just… wait.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Emma escapes into the bathroom and locks the door behind her. When she leans her head against the door she can hear Killian shuffling around the main room. She checks three times to make sure the door is locked before relaxing and getting ready to shower.

It isn’t until she is standing in the steamy room towel drying her hair that she realizes she left both her bathrobe and any clothes she might change into, in her bedroom. Emma takes a deep breath, wraps her towel more tightly around her body and opens the door.

Henry is up by this time, apparently making Killian breakfast on the stove. They both turn at the same time, Henry looking guilty as though Emma might yell at him again for interacting with the man who slept on their couch. Killian’s eyebrows shoot straight up, and his gaze drags slowly from her ankles up to her eyes, lips curling upwards in a smirk.

“And a good morning to you, Swan.”

She refuses to be thrown off by his obviously heated gaze and manages to not run from the room. Once dressed, she emerges again, approaching the table where the boys are eating the eggs and toast that Henry made.

Killian sits up immediately and pulls the vial from an inner pocket in his jacket, shaking it at her slightly. “Your turn now, love.”

She shakes her head at him and beckons towards Henry. “Come here, please.”

The two of them sit together on the couch, heads bent and voices lowered so that the clearly eavesdropping Killian can’t overhear them from his place in the kitchen, no matter how hard he might try.

“He’s alive,” Henry says at once, eyes wide and bright as he stares up at her. “What if he’s telling the truth?”

“You know better than that,” Emma admonishes. “There’s no such thing as curses, or evil queens, or magic. There’s no way what he said can be true.”

“Then it won’t do anything to us if we drink it, right?”

From the mouths of babes. Emma taps her fingers on her thigh for a minute, considering. Killian is not dead, despite almost twelve hours having passed since he ingested the liquid. He hasn’t lied to her, despite every crazy word that has come out of his mouth. And if there is no such thing as magic—if, as though there’s any possibility that there could be—Henry is right. What could the glowing liquid do but give them indigestion?

In fact, if they drink it and nothing happens, that might just be the ticket to getting this man out of their lives. He could realize that he’s wrong, and they could call the mental ward to pick up a new unbalanced patient.

Emma takes a deep breath. “Okay. We’ll give it a try.”

Henry lunges forward in a hug, and squeezes her tight. “Thanks mom. This is going to be awesome!”

He runs over to Killian and holds out his hands eagerly. Killian looks softer, more vulnerable than she has seen him yet, and there is cautious joy dancing behind his eyes.

“Half,” he warns Henry, placing the bottle in his hand. “Or else your mom won’t have any, and then we’ll have to figure out another way to convince her. And she’s a stubborn lass.”

Before Henry can drink it, Emma places a hand on his arm and looks Killian dead in the eyes. “If anything happens to my son because of this, I will kill you.”

He doesn’t even blink. “I don’t doubt it.”

There is nothing else for it; she removes her hand from her son’s arm and he takes a swallow, handing her the rest afterwards. She squints at it and downs the rest. Henry smiles at her, and something in Emma stirs. She feels lightheaded, and leans heavily against the counter next to her.

_What the…_

Henry’s eyes flutter and roll back into his head. He buckles and crashes to the floor in a heap. Killian rushes over to him, and Emma tries to move but finds that she can’t. There’s a rushing in her veins.

Killian looks at her in a panic, and her last coherent thought is _he’s a dead man_ before everything whites out.


	2. sighing respiration

Killian didn’t know what he had been expecting once Emma and Henry finally drank the memory potion, but it certainly wasn’t for them to both collapse to the floor in a dead faint. He’s fairly certain that he stopped breathing for a moment when Henry’s head knocked on the ground, a terror extended when Emma quickly followed suit.

There are pieces of shattered glass on the floor where Emma dropped the empty vial, a cut on her hand that one of them caused. Killian carefully takes her hand in his, wrapping his scarf around the cut snugly and is struck by the memory of doing this the first time, back at the top of the beanstalk a lifetime ago. Of course, Emma Swan was awake and watching him that time.

It’s a memory that she’ll have again when she wakes up. If she wakes up.

He refuses to think like that, not after what he went through to find her, not after the year spent wandering around her castle and watching her family break apart in slow motion. Her breathing is deep and even, as is Henry’s when he checks. They seem to be in some kind of sleep.

“Gods damn you, Tink,” Killian mutters, standing up and looking around the apartment. Bloody fairy hadn’t told him anything about this, just given him the vial and shoved him through some kind of portal, leaving him to fend for himself in a land that he still feels quite unfamiliar with. Wherever she is, she’s probably having a good laugh at his expense now.

He’d rather hoped they were past all the Neverland tricks.

Killian tries a few things to get the mother and son to wake. He shakes them, calls out their names, even resorts to splashing water on their faces. Nothing makes any difference, so Killian eventually ends up hauling them over to the couch and cushioning their heads with pillows, fervently hoping that there is no lasting damage.

There is nothing to do now but wait, as he can’t exactly drag two bodies through the city onto his ship. He doesn’t know much about this world, but he does know that he would be stopped and possibly locked away for a very long time. It’s not the sort of thing that most realms allow, even unpredictable, magic-less ones.

With a moment to think, Killian realizes that it was probably a side effect he could have anticipated, given the time. All of those memories emerging at once can't be something easy to handle, so it only makes sense that a body would shut down while trying to process it.

Since there is nothing else he can do, he might as well take a look around this place they now call home, even if it is a pretense. It’s warm and inviting, soft colors and little trinkets for decoration, comfortable furniture strewn about. It makes his heart sink, to see how well they have settled in here, so far from Storybrooke, so far from their real home.

Killian brushes his fingers against the wooden tables and along the walls as he paces. There are a few pictures hanging, ones of Emma and Henry smiling, leaning together and looking for all the world like there is nowhere they would rather be. Strangers fill the other frames, some of Emma sitting with them, raising a glass towards the lens, or Henry filled with laughter alongside those who must be his friends.

It hurts to look. To remember the brief glimpses he had caught of Emma with Snow in the old apartment, a reluctantly pleased-looking Swan in the arms of Charming. There are plants sitting by the windowsill, green and dancing slightly in the wind. Threadbare blankets thrown over chairs, rugs on the floor. It’s all so domestic, so much like a fantasy. Killian can’t help but wonder how they could be living this life and not suspect it to be fake, to be some concoction of a perfect life by somebody else.

He wants to smash the glass, tear the blankets, destroy the furniture. They can’t have been happy here, alone, without Snow and Charming, without magic and surprises and danger around every corner, the adrenaline pumping through their veins. Without him.

He has thought about it every day for a year, and he still doesn’t think he can bear it when those thoughts inevitably circle back around to this spot, this vicious darkness that was supposed to be lifted once he found her.

That will be lifted when she wakes up.

Killian sits on the table in front of the couch with his forearms on his thighs, watching them. Henry’s face is slack, and Killian realizes that he never actually thought of him as a child—he was Bae, in some ways, but Bae was never a child either. Not until he left the ship, and looked so alone. Henry looks like the twelve-year-old he is, and Killian hates himself that much more for not seeing it before.

Emma looks small. Vulnerable, open, the way she has only ever been when talking about her son. Her eyelashes flutter like she is dreaming, hair still wet on the pillow under her head, drying into the blonde curls he dreams of running his hands through. She seems relaxed, and Killian wants to see her this way again, but also awake, welcoming.

Time passes, and Killian watches the sun move across the sky out of the window. He fiddles with the flask inside of his jacket, patting it, brushing his fingertips over the cork, but doesn’t take it out. Instead, he removes the false hand from his brace and sets it next to him on the table.

He is cleaning his hook with the sleeve of his shirt when they jolt upwards at the same time. Their chests are heaving as though they have run miles at a sprint, eyes wild and shifting this way and that, finally landing on Killian who hasn’t moved, is barely daring to hope.

“What is going on?” Emma breathes, like she isn’t sure if what she’s seeing is real. There is a swelling in his breast because recognition is flickering across her face, she doesn’t look like she is going to demand that he leave once again.

Henry stands up on wobbly legs, bracing himself on the arm of the couch before heading straight into the kitchen for a glass of water. He gulps it down, gaze jumping all over the place, the pictures, the cabinets, his mother and the pirate sitting together.

“Henry,” There is no way that Killian could keep the happiness out of his voice if he wanted to. “Swan, you’re back. That blasted fairy knew what she was doing after all. We’ve already delayed too long, we must head back—“

Emma locks eyes with him and there is no warning before she hits him with a vicious right hook in the jaw, sending him sprawling over the coffee table and onto his back on the other side. The breath is knocked out of his body and Killian can tell that his ribs are going to be severely bruised. Emma is standing now, eyes blazing.

“Emma, what the bloody hell?”

“That’s for making my son drink a potion that knocked him right out.”

Indignant is the only way to describe how he feels about that. “I didn’t force anyone to drink anything, love, merely used my powers of persuasion to get you to trust me. It wasn’t easy, either.”

Emma walks around the table and leans down with her hands on her knees, narrowing her eyes at him. “Powers of persuasion? Like the way you tried to persuade me by kissing me as a total stranger, _Hook_?”

He feels a mirthless laugh escape his lips, gingerly prodding at his jaw. “I should have known that the only time you would call me by my name was when you couldn’t remember who I was.”

She looks uncomfortable at that and leaves him lying on the floor to go check on Henry. The boy offers another glass of water to her, which Emma accepts gratefully. With her free hand she pats his arms, shoulders, face, making sure he is still here, still alive, still fully put together. He smiles up at her gently and grabs her hand.

“I’m okay, Emma. Really.”

Killian groans as he stands up, wincing at the pain that is already making itself at home in his body. “Now that we have gotten the violence and assurances out of the way, we must hasten to my ship. We can’t get back to the Enchanted Forest without it.”

Emma glances at him over the counter, lips turned down in frustration. “Your ship will still be there later. If we’re leaving, there are some things that need to be taken care of.”

Killian wants to shake her. She has her memories back, she knows how important this is. “We’ve already waited too long.”

Emma does what she usually does, and refuses to listen to him. Instead, she bustles off to her room and shuts the door behind her with a definitive _click_. Killian sidles on over to Henry, who is staring like he can’t quite believe any of this is happening. He reaches out and runs his fingers over the hook, carefully avoiding the sharpened point of it, although Killian hasn’t kept it dipped in poison for quite some time.

“Responsible, isn’t she?” Killian asks, twisting off the hook and handing it to Henry so that he can inspect it more closely.

Henry shrugs. “She’s gotten pretty good at the ‘tying up loose ends’ thing. I think it happened because she spent a year being a real mom and not the Savior. Or, at least, I think she did.”

He says it so casually, not even looking at Killian when he does, but the words hit him like a physical blow. Here he is, thinking that they will pick up right where they left off, when he hadn't even considered what would happen if they did keep the fake memories alongside the real ones. And, as it seems they did, that makes this a different Henry, a different Emma.

Killian might not even know who this Swan is. If he weren’t standing right next to Henry, this would be the moment he would take a swig from his flask. As it is, he frowns in her general direction, sending angry thoughts Tinkerbell’s way, and reasons that once the true memories really set in, she will revert back to normal. She must.

Emma comes back out of her room at this moment, hair tied back away from her face, holding a little book in her hands. Killian watches her write some kind of note, rip out a piece of paper from her book, and put them both in an envelope.

“What on this bloody earth is more important than getting back to your family?”

“Language,” Emma says without looking up, something that sounds stale enough that she must have repeated it hundreds of times, probably to Henry himself.

“Emma, I’m twelve. I can handle it.”

She seals the envelope with a lick and reaches out to Henry, saying, “You know, you can—“

Henry deftly dances out of the way, face closing off uncharacteristically, clearly avoiding having a hard conversation. Emma’s expression tightens at this before relaxing out into indifference. She throws on her coat.

“I’m going down to slide this under the landlord’s door. It’s rent, Hook, in case you were wondering,” she shoots in his direction. He was wondering, but her explanation hardly helps clear things up. “I’ve already called work and told them there was a family emergency, that I wasn’t sure how long I would have to be away. You two stay here.”

She leaves, the walls shaking when the door bangs shut, and Henry hands back Killian’s hook.

“Responsible,” he agrees.

It’s only five minutes before she returns. A quick glance around the apartment, fingers fidgeting nervously, and she concedes, “Alright, let’s go. I think that’s everything.”

Killian sighs in relief and feels a smile break out on his face, despite the long and uneven road that it took to get them here. His hook rests gently on Henry’s shoulder, steering him out the door, when Emma says, “Put your fake hand on. You can’t go walking around New York with a hook for a hand.”

He does as she asks and she snatches his hook to drop it into one of her pockets.

Killian narrows his eyes at her. “Still mistrustful, Swan.” He doesn’t break eye contact with her until she turns away, back towards the door. He thinks he may have won something.

Emma locks the door and drops the keys into the pocket of her red leather jacket. Killian follows the movement with his eyes. “You aren’t planning on coming back here, are you?”

She dodges the question by slipping by him and marching to the stairs. “Come on. We have a ship to get to, don’t we?” His heart sinks, but he follows her anyway.

The three of them walk the busy mid-morning streets of the city, and Killian still isn’t used to a place where people don’t part before him. Their eyes slide over him without incident, uncaring of his appearance. Killian thinks that they probably wouldn’t have cared even if he had kept his hook on. He has never felt so invisible.

Henry chatters away the entire journey, asking him this and that. Emma walks ahead, silent, hands shoved deeply into her pockets. Killian’s gaze keeps returning to her, boring into her from behind, but she never looks back, just directs them through the maze of roads and impossible-to-navigate subway systems.

Killian does not like being trapped underground in a fast moving vehicle, shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers. Having spent hundreds of years out on the open sea, these tunnels make him claustrophobic, and it’s only the deep breaths he forces himself to take that keep him calm.

That, and the distraction of Henry talking his ear off.

“What about when I was eight and broke my arm falling off the top of the monkey bars, and Emma had to come over from work to take me to the hospital? What about that?”

“To the best of my knowledge, that never happened.” Killian is jostled by a sharp turn of the train, leaning into Emma on his other side with a curse under his breath.

“That never happened?”

It is the first thing she’s said since they left the apartment building. Killian can barely hear her voice over the rumble of the train, the softness of her sound betraying uncertainty.

If he hadn’t promised himself he wouldn’t lie to her ever since she tied him to a tree back in the Enchanted Forest, he would do so in this moment. “It didn’t.”

Emma turns away from him, and Killian resists the urge to reach out and gather her into his arms, hold her against his body until her sadness melts away. She would never allow it, even the Emma he had seen drive away from the curse a year ago, so Killian pays attention to Henry once more.

“We both like cinnamon on top of our hot chocolate, is that true?”

“Does that still sound good to you, mate?”

Henry ponders for half a heartbeat before a grin appears. “I think so.”

Once they get off the subway it’s a short walk to the dock where his ship is tethered. The dirty air of the city is a relief after the ride underground, and Killian feels like he can breathe freely again. Emma lets him lead the way from here, falling back to walk in step with Henry. Killian might not know his way around the city that well, but he retraces his steps easily enough, and soon they’re standing in front of the beautiful ship bobbing on the river.

Emma’s brow furrows. “This isn’t the _Jolly Roger_.”

“So you remember my beauty?” Emma glares at him. “She landed somewhere out at sea when we were taken back to the Enchanted Forest. No one ever was able to recover her, so your parents commissioned this new one for me. Although they expect me to head up their navy once things are back in order. I’m quite sure we’ll have to have a talk about that.”

Henry runs aboard immediately, the pure excitement something that makes Killian's heart swell. Emma tilts her head, attempting to find a name painted on the wooden slats, but there is none.

“What’s her name?”

This was not a question he had expected her to ask, and for once he isn’t sure how she is going to react to the answer. “She’s been named _Swan Song_.”

Killian thinks he might see a bit of color rise to her cheeks, but before he can make sure, she has followed her son aboard. When Killian doesn’t join them she turns around, leaning over the rail, and shouts back down at him. “Coming aboard, _captain_?”

He shakes his head. “It is spelled so that as soon as the three of us step on deck, we will be immediately transported back. I thought I might be considerate, and give you time to ask questions before we return.”

Emma’s expression clearly shows that she doesn’t exactly believe him. She leaves him standing on the dock, disappearing out of his line of vision, and he curses the memory potion that Tink had cooked up.

“Left out a few important details, didn’t you lass? ‘No time to explain, just go’. Sodding fairy.”

He calls to the two on board as he walks up to the deck. “You remember traveling through a portal, don’t you?”

“Like a bad dream,” Emma responds, and there she is leaning against the mast, watching Henry explore. Killian catches her eye, and his hand goes once more to the bruise blossoming on his jaw.

“Aye, bad it was, but not a dream.”

Killian squares his shoulders and hops down onto the open deck. There is an immediate whirling accompanied by a rushing sound; it feels as though his bones are shaking in his skin. The blurry outlines of Emma and Henry are simply masses of color, and there is the telltale stinging against him, through his clothes, that always means magic.

 _Swan Song_ lands with a resounding splash in the bay, water heaving up and over the sides, drenching the three of them. If he wasn’t so seasoned, the bobbing of the ship might have sent him to the railing with an upset stomach. Henry’s laughter rings out as the first thing that Killian can process again, the boy clinging to a pile of rope and looking absolutely delighted.

Emma, on the other hand, looks something like a drowned cat, hair flattened against her face and neck, clothes sticking to her body. Killian takes off his jacket, shaking it out, and brushes his dripping hair out of his eyes. “Something of a rough ride, isn’t it?”

“Is that it? Is that the castle?”

Killian turns in the direction that Henry is eagerly pointing. From this distance, it looks as it should; castle towering up on the high hill, looking over the town that clutters the slopes, down to the docks that thrust out into the bay. It is picturesque on the surface, but Killian knows that the town is likely empty, the castle probably looted and damaged. He still remembers the black smoke billowing from the windows when he left.

“Aye, that’s her. We’ll get there soon enough to take a look around. Just let me bring her around to port.”

He makes his way up to the wheel, turning the soaked ship and her passengers towards the docks. Emma and Henry watch the town loom closer, and Killian realizes that Henry has never been to the Enchanted Forest, Emma never seen from this distance the palace that her parents intended her to grow up in. He wants to see her face, when the emotion is real and raw, before she hides it like she always does.

Killian is reluctant to tie up the _Swan Song_ where anyone can reach her, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. He resigns himself to silently saying goodbye to her, fully aware that someone will probably take her and sail off before he can return. And him only captaining her for a few weeks, most of that time not even spent on her deck. The only consolation is that Snow and Charming will build him another one; they seem keen to do those sorts of things these days.

Once they rescue them, of course.

The walk up to the Summer Palace is a long one, even taking the main road that heads straight up to the gates. Henry is interested in everything, the mess of shops on either side, what they are called and what they sell, even with the broken windows and dark insides. Killian, however, is disturbed. The damage looks like more than just the panic of citizens. He’s seen the masses scramble to get their hands on what they can, food and luxury items, but the motivation is purely selfish, entirely thinking about themselves and their families.

There are scorch marks on the stone sides, holes burnt right through doors by fire. Ashes litter the ground, trampled down into the dirt, and dark bloodstains are smeared almost everywhere he looks. It reeks of disorderly sadism, the kind that even Regina in her prime looked down upon.

Their steps send up half-hearted flurries of ashes, coating their lungs, and Killian finds himself missing the smog in the air of the New York, something he never thought would happen. Henry is about to dart into a store, one with fading paint spelling out ‘Books & Antiques’, but Emma’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Don’t. We don’t know what we’ll find in there.”

Ah, so she’s noticed as well. The smell of decay hangs heavily over their heads, and Killian doesn’t relish the idea of running into any dead bodies while poking around.

The closer they get to the gates, the worse the destruction is. From the looks of things, it must have started up at the palace and worked its way downwards into the crowded city. A shrewd strategy: with the castle fighting for itself, there is no way to protect its citizens. It must have been a slaughter.

The gates of the palace are thrown wide open, bent and dented, just barely hanging on their hinges. Henry has sobered during their walk, and now keeps in step with them, close to Emma’s side. Killian can feel the hackles start to rise on the back of his neck, and he halts them before they enter the grounds.

“My hook, love.”

Emma hands it over without question. Killian throws aside the other attachment for his brace, positive he'll not longer need it, and twists the hook into place, satisfied with the click it makes. He has his sword belted about his waist, but would feel much more comfortable if Emma and Henry had their own weapons.

Or with someone else at his side, like Charming.

There is almost nothing left of the grounds that they pass. The earth is brown and dead, trees withered away, bushes and shrubs left to burn to a crisp. Inside the outer walls they come across the first corpses; men and women slumped on the ground, flies buzzing about their bodies, all in the same state of decay.

Killian covers his nose with the sleeve of his left arm, approaching one of the bodies that still has chain mail and a helmet, shocked that the armor hasn’t been stolen by this point. Emma and Henry wait back on the path while he grabs the sword from the slack grip, wiping the blood and maggots off as best he can on the man’s clothes. He then has to uncover his nose to unbuckle the scabbard from around the waist, sliding the sword into it and returning to the others.

“Take it,” he tells Emma, and she does, seemingly automatically. He knows she has seen dead bodies before, was there when she walked onto the scene of mass murder that Cora had caused more than a year ago, but her actions are stunted, harsh.

Henry’s eyes are wide, face pale, and Killian gives him a gentle push between the shoulder blades to get him started again. “Don’t stop. Don’t look. Just walk.”

The absence of sound is starting to get to him. All animals have abandoned the area, seeking out greener pastures. Even the weather is in mourning, wind silent. The sun feels cold on his skin.

The three of them walk under the archway of the inner walls, and once on the other side Killian looks up out of habit, to the tower that holds the rooms of the royals living here. The sturdy stone the palace is made out of is hard to shift, but a valiant effort was made, some of the edges crumbling. Killian drops his eyes once again and steps out in front before they pass through into the castle itself.

“I will go first,” he announces, drawing his sword. Emma lays a hand on his arm, using her teeth to untie the scarf around the cut on her hand. She hands it back to him.

“Can’t hold a sword right with it.” And with that, draws her own.

Killian gives her grip a brief glance. “Can’t hold one right at all. Remind me to teach you when we have the time, love.”

They walk with Henry between them, Killian heading up the group and Emma cautiously following last.

Inside, the carnage is worse than anywhere else. Not only were soldiers engaged in battle, but there had also been an entire staff on hand to keep the palace running smoothly. Maids and butlers, cooks in the kitchen, ladies in waiting and council members. Lords, blacksmiths, gardeners, advisors and even guests, all within these walls.

Once he’s sure that there are no immediate threats in the hall, Killian beckons Emma over. “We need to search the castle, all the main rooms and anywhere that your parents might have been when they were taken.”

She gets his meaning. “I am not leaving Henry alone. He might see horrible things, but he won’t end up dead.”

“Smart lass. We’ll find you a better sword too, one that isn’t rusted and chipped. One for the lad, as well.”

Henry is staring at the floor, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. Killian’s heart twists, and Emma moves back over to hold his hand with her free one.

“I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

Emma’s eyes lock with Killian’s, and he has only ever seen her so desperate in Neverland. “It’s going to be okay, kid. I promise.”

_You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Swan._

They begin their search in earnest.


	3. ataxia

_“Mom. Dad.” She falls into their arms, head pressed against their shoulders, and closes her eyes against the tears that threaten to spill. There is noise behind her, a rumbling, and she’s so terrified because she just found them, she was just starting to get to know them and she isn’t ready to die, she isn’t ready to let them die. They hold her, and she can pretend she's a girl again._

_“Mom, why don’t I have any grandparents?”_

_Her breath catches in her throat. She glances over at Henry, but he is sitting at the table coloring, not even looking up at her for an answer to the question._

_“Why so curious, kid?”_

_He scribbles with his crayons, not bothering to pay attention to the lines he is supposed to be coloring inside of. “We’re supposed to talk about our families in school tomorrow, and Nina was telling me about her grandma and grandpa. But I don’t have any.”_

_“Your grandparents…” How does one explain this to a five-year-old? “They couldn’t keep me. I don’t know who they are either. But it’s okay, we have all the family we need right here.”_

_He’s looking at her now, and it’s as though he can see right through her. He's too smart for his own good. “Why didn’t they want you?”_

_He means nothing by it, of course, doesn’t understand that those words hurt her more than she could possibly describe, doesn’t know that she asked herself the same question every night in her foster homes. “I don’t know.”_

Emma fades back in to the grisly hall. She can’t catch her breath, can’t rid her head of the strained faces of the people she called parents and allowed to hold her. It takes her too long to pull herself back together, put the puzzle pieces where they belong, but she manages eventually. Thankfully, Henry is watching the floor instead of her, and Hook is preoccupied with his mission.

Hook seems to be immune to the grisly scene around them; he hunts methodically, gently pushing the bodies of the innocent aside to get to the dead soldiers underneath. There are far more palace workers as the dead, it’s difficult for her to search them, for weapons, for anything, when she sees their glassy eyes, open stares.

“I don’t recognize these sigils,” Hook says, peering at the markings on the armor and shields of the soldiers. “Three hundred years and you get to know a lot of house sigils, but these are foreign to me.”

“Maybe that means they’re new,” Emma suggests, pulling herself fully into the present. She crouches next to him to take a look. It seems to be two crossed swords in a circle.

“It has to be the Black Fairy. Using an army because she no longer has her wand. She must have been building it up.” He frowns and lets the shield drop back to the ground.

Emma glances up at Henry who is staring at the ground, biting his bottom lip, body strung tight like a bowstring. “Hey kid, you alright?”

He meets her eyes and nods minutely. The lie pinches in her skin.

“What happened here?” He asks Hook, who sends a quick glance Emma’s way before answering. There’s no point in keeping the truth from him—the evidence is lying at his feet.

“Tinkerbell told me that everyone was captured and taken away one day while I was out on the water; Charming and Snow, Belle, Neal, Robin and his band, and even Regina, who was staying at the time. I expect the queen put up quite the fight before they took her.” He pauses before continuing on. “I’ve no certainty about why they were taken, but I expect it has something to do with your parents,” he gestures to Emma, “trying to rebuild. The realm has been overrun with ogres and other such beasts; perfect scenario for an evil wench to take over, and she had almost thirty years to do so.”

“And where’s this helpful fairy now, when you need her?” Emma says, toeing at another soldier. Same sigil on this one.

Hook throws up his arms. “Damned if I know. Probably with the other fairies, trying to plan some sort of counter attack. It would be nice if they let us in on the plans, considering it was them who sent me to bring you back.” He puts a gentle arm on Henry's back and starts toward the entryway that will bring them to the rest of the enormous building.

He leads them through the palace, walking with purpose, a confidence that Emma can’t feel. The path twists and turns, up stairs and through cavernous rooms, all marked in some way by the battle that took place here. It takes a few minutes to reach the royal suite and the rooms for important guests. Hook peeks behind one of the doors, leaving she and Henry out in the hall. When she peeks around his body she sees that this one is, thankfully, devoid of the dead.

“They were in their rooms when taken,” he informs them, closing the door and moving on. “Didn’t go without a fight. Snow and Charming slept with weapons at their bedsides since returning from Storybrooke.”

They come across a door blasted off its hinges, slammed into the wall opposite with dark streaks around the corners. Emma presses her fingertips against the twisted metal and draws back almost immediately. It is hot to the touch.

“Regina,” Hook says, as though that needed confirming. “She damn sure took some of them down before they got her, though.”

“This is telling us nothing,” Emma snaps. There is ice slipping down her throat into her stomach, and she can’t help but shiver. Faces flash in her mind's eye again. “Let’s move on; you said we needed better weapons. Where can we find some?”

He nods to her. “Blacksmith, out on the grounds. Follow me.” He takes them down a back stairway, out onto the grounds so that they don't have to walk through the piles of bodies again. The ashes and burnt plants crunch under their feet, and Emma isn't sure if this way is much better.

Hook talks as he wends his way, glancing back at them to make sure they are still in his wake. “After we get new weapons, we’ll head back to the ship, see if she’s still there. If luck is on our side, we’ll be able to sail part of the way, make much better time. If not, we will have to walk; there is no chance any horses were left in the stables.”

Emma is barely listening, even though she knows what he is saying is important. Her steps slow and Henry walks ahead, behind Hook. His voice is washing over her in a delicious accent, her limbs feel warm and heavy, like she’s wading through water.

_There’s a rush of gratitude enveloping her body, a warmth even more prevalent than the wet heat of the jungle, and she meets his eyes because she can’t explain to him what it means to her, that he would do this with no prompting, nothing to gain from it whatsoever._

_He’s helping her find her son, he saved her father, he told her Neal was alive, and never has anyone done anything like this for her before, not in her entire life._

_Emma’s body thrums, it sings, and she’s scared, absolutely petrified that she won’t get Henry back, that she’s going to be distracted, that this man might actually care for her—_

_But she’s clutching at the bars of a cage and those eyes are boring into her, she might be an open book to him but he’s no different, and that’s hurt she sees, hurt and betrayal and she feels awful but she did what she had to do. Desperation is sour on her tongue._

_No, he’s leaving her here. Walking away with Cora, without a glance back, she hates him, she hates him, she hates him in this moment._

“Emma? Emma? Mom!”

Emma blinks, stumbles, and catches herself on Henry’s shoulder. His fingers are curling into her stiffened, salt-coated leather jacket. She shakes her head, but the movement does not help to clear it.

“I’m fine,” she croaks out. “Just a little dizzy.” Things are still wavering like a mirage in a desert, and she realizes she is sweating when she tries to shake her hair out of her eyes and it sticks to her face.

Henry refuses to let go of her for a long moment, but eventually pulls his hands away, although stays close. Emma breathes deeply and catches Hook with his brow furrowed, fingers twitching at his side like he’s stopping himself from moving. She sucks in another lungful of air and says to them, “Keep going. We need to get some better weapons.”

The blacksmith isn’t far. Emma follows behind them a ways, her head cocked slightly to the side. He had told her that her memories would return, and they did. In a tidal wave of pictures and sounds, conflicting faces and words and feelings. She doesn’t trust any of it, can’t touch it or sort it out, even now, hours after they have returned to her. Her brain keeps pulling random memories out of the mess and shoving them to the surface.

How is she supposed to trust this man in front of her when she remembers him locking her up, keeping her away from Henry?

That brings another problem to the forefront; Henry seems to have adjusted perfectly, accepting all these new memories as true, as real. He hasn’t had blackouts of noise, scenes pasted in front of his eyes so that he has to stop walking and process. He can focus on the dead bodies littering the ground. Maybe she has the better end of the deal.

The blacksmith’s forge looks nearly untouched besides the usual burn marks and soot. Inside, it seems a freeze frame, as though someone will come out from the back and pick up the half-hammered sword dropped by the fire to continue working on it. They escape the lingering smell of decay while inside, have a brief respite from encountering people with different limbs severed from their bodies, mouths open in silent screams.

“Henry,” Hook calls from where he is at the wall of weapons hanging. He pulls one down. “Give this one a few thrusts and parries, tell me how it feels.”

Henry unsheathes the blade. It’s a small sword, clearly made for a child. He flexes his hand around the hilt and shifts his body weight, slashing out at the air. Emma has never seen him use one before; he moves smoothly, back and forth on his feet, and she feels a surge of jealousy that it wasn’t she who taught him this. It couldn’t have been.

Right?

“The lad’s better than you are,” Hook says, jolting her out of her thoughts. She glares at him but he merely smiles back, holding out another sword. “This one should work for you love.”

Her response is a tad more acerbic than she means it to be. “Should I _thrust_ and _parry_ too?”

He shakes his head, lightly skipping over the easy chance for an innuendo. “That would be of no use; you wouldn’t be able to tell if it’s a good fit, considering you can’t even hold it.”

Henry leads the way as they head back outside. Emma bites her lip and reaches out, placing a hand on Hook’s chest to prevent him from following. Her bare skin touches his, and she jerks back, putting the space between them that she hadn’t realized she’d closed.

“Thank you,” she says, sincerely, meeting his eyes. He looks back at her, eyes lidded, unreadable. “For taking his mind off of… everything.”

“You’re very welcome, Swan.”

It’s a long walk back down to where the ship is in the harbor. Even atop the hill, Emma can’t see down to where she might be, view blocked by the buildings of the town. She plods along heavily and swears in her head every time her leg knocks into the sword in its sheath. She isn’t used to walking with the new weight about her waist, and soon gives up at trying to maneuver around the jostling item. Maybe Hook can teach her how to belt it correctly as well.

A shiver wracks her body, and Emma can feel herself sliding again. She squints her eyes, focusing on the ground beneath her feet, the feel of the uncomfortable, dirty clothes on her body, the soft hum buzzing about her ears, the lighter than air bones in her body, the smell of sunshine in the air. She never knew sunshine had a smell befre. She zeroes in on the leather-clad back of Hook in front of her.

_“Try something new darling. It’s called trust.”_

_“Have you ever even been in love?”_

_“When I jab you with my sword, you’ll feel it.”_

_“You are bloody brilliant. Amazing!”_

_Cora’s accomplice. A partner to the murder of an entire camp of people, digging himself under dead bodies to trick them into believing him, bodies of innocent people hoping to be safe together, following a leader and someone who betrayed their trust in the most unforgivable way._

_He smells like dirt and blood and death, and Emma feels like her nose will bleed from it._

When she can see again, her back is against the side of a building and she has slid down so that she is sitting on the packed ground. Both Henry and Hook are leaning over her, calling her name, which reaches her slowly and through pressed air around her ears.

“Emma! Emma, love, are you alright?”

All of a sudden her strength comes roaring back, and she leaps up, knocking his helping hand out of the way. “Don’t call me that!”

Hook takes a step back at the fury in her gaze, arms raised as though to try to defend himself. She doesn’t give him the chance. In one swift movement she pulls Henry behind her and draws her sword. Who gives a damn if she can hold the thing right, all she needs to do is hit flesh.

Hook looks like he has been completely caught off guard, and Emma allows herself to feel a tiny bit of pride at that. “We aren’t going anywhere with you.”

“I won’t fight you Emma.”

“Last time we fought, I kicked your ass.” _I think._ “Just take us back to that ship of yours, and bring us home.”

He is stunned, mouth gaping open. Emma can feel Henry trying to inch around her, but shifts continuously to keep him behind her.

“Your family is in danger, you know that, you have your memories back! We must find them!”

He’s arguing with her, and she can feel her shoulders set, her resolve strengthen because of it. “We don’t have to do anything except go home and get back to our normal lives.”

Henry's voice reaches her, though she doesn't take her eyes off of Hook. "We have to find my mom! And your parents, and everyone else from Storybrooke. They need us, Emma."

Hook is talking at the same time. “The Black Fairy—“

And Emma can’t help it, she really can’t, her voice rises to a pitch and suddenly she’s screaming at him, ripping her throat raw. “Did you not see the palace back there? _It was a massacre!_ You are asking me to take my son into the middle of a war that has nothing to do with us, risk our lives for these people you say are our family!”

She doesn’t even realize she has been advancing on him with her sword until he draws his, sliding the length of the blade down her own. His voice is low, but not dangerous, despite the position they are in. “Put it down Emma. I will not fight you, but I will defend myself. I will keep you safe. I will keep Henry safe. You must trust me.”

“I _don’t_ trust you.”

That hurts him, more than anything else she has said so far, she can see it in the way his face lines, his eyes go dim, his sword falls to his side as his limbs go limp. Here, he looks utterly defeated, and Emma hates that she feels bad about that, that she doesn’t want to see him like this, to know that she caused it, so she continues in a rush. “I don’t trust you, I barely even know you. You keep telling me that I have to trust you, that my family is in danger, that there’s this Black Fairy but all I’m seeing is corpses and burnt buildings and _you_. I don’t even know if you’re _real_ —“

She says it before she can stop herself, and Hook pulls up abruptly. “Swan,” he starts, approaching her like a frightened animal. She feels like one, back against the wall, keeping her son safe. Willing to do anything to make sure they make it out of this alive.

“Emma!” Henry’s hands are pulling at her shirt, and she turns to see him standing with his sword drawn, eyes glued up the street. “You guys have to stop fighting. I hear…”

Emma freezes, and as soon as she concentrates there is a thudding in the background, a noise that would have been mundane in a bustling city, but echoes loudly in what has become a ghost town.

Hook lets out a string of curses and spins on his heel to look down the other end of the street. The pounding is increasing from that direction as well. He looks back at them, eyes wild, and says, “We have to run.”

Every nerve is on high alert, her hair standing on end. She doesn’t question him, doesn’t even blink, and asks, “Where?”

“Not into a shop, they’ll corner us. Down that street. Go. Now!” He shoves her unceremoniously between the shoulder blades and she runs, practically dragging Henry along with her.

Emma prays that they lose their pursuers because there is no hope of outrunning them, not now that it has registered the noise they heard was horse hooves on cobblestones and packed earth. She still has her sword out, and Hook knocks into her shoulder, causing her arm to jerk back and almost slice his face open.

“Put that away!” he hisses, moving around her and increasing his speed, checking all the streets before sprinting down them. They take quite a few turns, sometimes down narrow alleys that are barely wide enough to fit two people shoulder to shoulder.

“Where are we going?” asks Henry through pants. His face is flushed, sweat beads his forehead, but he has kept up with them well thus far.

Hook’s breaths are coming out harshly. “Still down to the dock. We need to—fuck!” he skids to a stop, urging them back the way they came with a finger pressed against his lips in a 'be quiet' motion, away from the galloping horses down the street they had almost turned onto.

Emma is frantic, and every path looks the same to her. Hook pauses, considering, muttering under his breath and finally leads them down an alley that they have to turn sideways to squeeze through. “We have to get to my ship now otherwise they’ll catch us for sure.”

“What if it’s not there?”

He glances back at Emma, mouth twisting. Instead of responding, he falls out of the tiny alley and urges them ahead again at a run, saying, “We’re close to port now, and if we keep to these paths that the horses can’t make it through, we may have enough time to set off before the gits get to us.”

A few more complicated turns and they can see the sun glinting on the water across the way. They can’t get any closer to where the ship is docked without being totally exposed. Hook shrugs his shoulders, looking both ways, and kneels in front of Henry.

“As fast as you can now, mate.”

Henry takes off, Emma hot on his heels. She can feel Hook’s hand at her elbow, urging her on. It’s a steadying presence, but Emma’s fear feels like it might boil over, and all she can think about is that she should never have come here, just a couple of hours and they are running for their lives from people on horses with armor and weapons and more experience with it all than she can even pretend to have.

They turn a corner to be met with the view of several men mounted on horses, throwing burning rags stuck in bottles of oil as hard as they can onto the deck of _Swan Song_. Tendrils of flame are already rising, eating away at the beautiful paint and sanded wood. It seems they decided to quit chasing them down narrow streets and head to their escape vessel.

“No!” Hook cries. His shoulders heave, eyes blazing. He has drawn his sword again, and also the attention of the men on the horses. They dig their heels into the sides of the horses and urge them into a fast gallop down the street.

“We can’t fight them!” Emma draws her sword anyway, finally tearing her eyes away from the burning ship in the bay. Her only hope to escape with her son, to get back home. Gone.

Henry’s face is white but his grip is firm, arm steady when he holds out his weapon. Emma ruffles his salty hair, hitching up the best smile that she can. She suspects it isn’t very convincing.

“We’re going to make it through this. Hide somewhere, I’ll find you later.” He takes a step back.

And then the men are upon them.

Emma has never fought at any sort of length with a sword before, and considering her gun was soaked with saltwater when they landed in the sea, she feels completely defenseless. Her coordination is still sharp, but she is afraid of cutting at the horses.

Hook seems to have no such qualms. The metal is like an extension of his arm, flashing this way and that with confidence. He lashes at the calves of one of the men, doesn’t even watch as the blood spurts out so he can turn and go after the one cornering Henry. Emma has both hands wrapped around the hilt of her sword, barely managing to get the blade up in time to ward off the thrusts of the man in front of her. He keeps nudging his horse, forcing her to step back and diverting her attention from his attack, nicking the skin of her arms almost continuously.

Emma dances away and spins, hoping to reach Henry, but there are bodies of both horses and men blocking her way.

She thinks there might be five of them; a small enough group, but mounted and advancing on thoroughly unprepared targets. One canters by and grabs a handful of her hair, dragging her along as he urges his horse on faster. She feels some strands part from her scalp, a strangled yell crawling out of her throat before she instinctively lashes back and must cut his hand deeply, because he lets her hair go.

She tumbles to the ground, hard, breath knocked out of her, a shooting pain in one of her ankles. She looks up to see Henry backed against a wall, managing to smack the horse’s flanks in front of him with the flat of his sword, and causing it to shy away. Hook shoves his shoulder into the horse with enough strength to make it stumble sideways, and in the same movement slices the straps of the saddle, causing the man riding to slip off onto the ground.

Emma leaps to her feet, tries to catch the reins of the now rider less horse, but it rears, kicking its front hooves out at her, and she has to duck to the side to avoid being knocked in the head. The horse takes off down the docks at a gallop.

The man who fell to the ground is now still, a pool of blood spreading from a fatal wound in his chest. Hook has two more soldiers on either side of him, a cut on his forehead bleeding profusely. It must be hindering his vision, because he misses when he next lunges forward, blood dripping from both his sword and his hook. One of the men manages to hit him on the back of the head with the flat side of his sword, and he falls to his knees.

He is leaning down to finish Hook off when Emma gets to him, an opening between his armor as he stretches his arm down. She shoves her sword forward and up, into the soft flesh between his arm bones and ribcage. He howls in pain, dropping his sword and pulling back instantly. Before she can think, she turns sideways and smashes the hilt into his face. There’s a sickening crunch and spurt of warm blood. He slumps over in his saddle, face disfigured, nose completely unrecognizable as such.

She turns at an inhuman scream, dazed, to see Hook on his feet again by a gutted horse. Its entrails are spilling out, intestines glistening in blood, and its eyes are rolling, the whites showing in the corners. Hook ignores the beast, dueling with the man who had hopped off, bearing down hard. Their steps are intricate, but the man makes a mistake somewhere in the complicated moves and exposes his neck to the horizontal slash of Hook’s sword.

He gurgles, windpipe sliced open, and falls over clawing at his throat.

“Mom! _Mom!_ ”

Emma whips about—Henry’s sword is lying on the ground. She looks up to see the last rider with Henry slung over the saddle in front of him, one hand tangled in his collar, glancing back at she and Hook.

Panic rises in her breast, and she desperately hurls her sword at the horse quickly increasing distance from them. She misses completely but is already running, screaming Henry’s name as she does, eyesight blurring with tears.

When they disappear around a corner, all the life seeps from her limbs. Her legs give out and she drops, knees hitting the sharp stones and sending pain spiking up her body.

He’s gone. She let him be taken and how he is in danger of being killed, of being starved and locked up when yesterday his only worry was seventh grade and how late she would let him ride the subway system.

Emma can feel the tears leaking down her cheeks, knows that she must be hyperventilating because her vision is beginning to go fuzzy at the edges. Her scalp is on fire, her entire left side scraped and bruised, blood covering the front of her shirt, and she couldn’t even protect her son.

Someone pulls her to her feet, holds her close, and she buries her head in leather, enveloped by warmth and the smell of blood, sweat, skin. Her fingers cling, and a small voice in her head says _I still don’t know if you’re real_.

She pulls back, looks up at Hook who has blood drying on his face. He brushes a thumb along her chin and says, “I’m sorry, Emma.”

Cold numbness is settling into her stomach; she can feel the ice crawling along her veins, and she steps out of his grip, eyes dry once more. “I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to take me to find my son.”

Hook looks back at the dead bodies littering the street and grimaces. “Meant to keep the last one alive. Idiot stepped right into my blade; killed himself really.” He looks back at her. “We don’t know where to start looking. Henry might be taken anywhere, and none of the horses they rode are still here. Or alive.”

He's right; the animals are gone. Emma gazes at him coolly. “Then take me to someone who can tell us where to start looking.”

He nods, determination settling back into his features. “There are some people, like me, who escaped the curse that brought most of the realm to Storybrooke. They may have an idea about where the Black Fairy is hiding out.”

“Take me to them.”

Hook starts walking and Emma follows, though her limbs feel as though they’re filled with lead. This whole place is like a nightmare, being attacked, blood and bodies everywhere she turns, conflicting memories invading her mind.

But Henry. She remembers Henry in New York, in Phoenix. She remembers Henry is Storybrooke with the evil queens and princesses and magic. She remembers everything about Henry.

If anything about her memories is real, anything at all, it’s him. Without him, she has nothing.


	4. biot's respiration

The forest grows right up to the town line, almost on top of the little houses, and spreads over leagues, with roads of varying sizes marking paths through it. There is the main road, which winds between castles and kingdoms, and all other roads branch off from it, snaking their ways into little villages and homes, some dwindling to the point where they seem no more than goat herding paths, or hiking trails.

Unfortunately, the roads aren’t always the quickest way from point A to point B, many following winding rivers and going around hills instead of over them, so Killian is forced to lead them through the woods itself. It’s hard going, especially for someone who is hurt, and neither he nor Emma are feeling their best. It soon becomes apparent that there is something wrong with Emma’s ankle when she starts limping alongside him.

At the first stream they come across, Killian halts their progression. Emma protests a little bit, before he reminds her that they’ll make much slower time if their wounds become infected or a fever takes hold. Despite her reluctance, she can’t suppress the sigh that comes when she eases the boot off of her hurt foot.

Killian washes his face, scrubbing to get the brown, dried blood off, and gingerly prods at the cut on his forehead. It isn’t very deep, nothing that even nicked the bone, but it bled profusely, and he’s worried that if tries to wash it out, it will begin again.

“Bugger gave me a cut that matches the bruise you gave me rather well, Swan,” he says, examining his face in the reflection of the water. It distorts with movement of the current, but the black and purple blossoming on his jaw is unmistakable.

He can see her roll her eyes. “Rinse your cuts,” she tells him, taking her own advice and plunging her arms into the cold water. He sees her shiver, but she doesn’t remove her limbs, rubbing at them gently with her fingers. Some have already begun to scab.

Emma took care of herself well enough in the battle, especially for someone who can barely draw a sword without taking her own head off, but she came off worse than he, it seems. Emma winces almost every time she moves, her ankle is swollen, and he can see a trickle of blood down the back of her neck. A delayed reaction of anger and fear washes over him, and he allows himself to act on his impulse.

Emma tenses up when he moves behind her, brushing her blonde hair carefully to the side, but he doesn’t touch her any more than that. “We need to make sure that your head is alright.”

“It’s fine,” she snaps, moving away from him. Killian frowns.

“Head wounds are quite serious. I have to make sure we needn't worry, and since seeing the back of your own head happens to not being among your many talents…”

She turns around then, and her green eyes flicker to the side of his head. “If that’s the case then I need to look at yours too.”

His hand flies to the bump at the base of his skull and he flinches away from his own touch, the texture of his rings an unpleasant surprise. “You first, love,” he insists.

She searches his gaze, but seems to find nothing that she is looking for, because her shoulders slump and she lets him sweep her hair aside again. Even at this gentle motion, Emma closes her eyes and bites her lip, and Killian feels heat rush to his stomach, boiling.

“Lie on your back, head on the bank, darling. There we go.”

He sits next to her, and carefully smooths the blonde strands out, letting them drift in the water for a moment. Killian dips them so they are completely wet, and then cups some water in his hands, pouring it over her scalp. Emma’s eyes close, and he can see the muscles of her body loosen. The cool must be a welcome relief after the stinging. He repeats the action until there is no dry spot on her head, and begins working his fingers through her hair.

It is soft and silky, just as he remembers from their kiss in Neverland. He starts at the ends, running his fingers through it, making sure the stiffness from dried salt rinses away. He works his way up, untangling the knots gently, until he can explore her scalp. The water must have helped a bit, because she doesn’t wince when he runs his hands over her, testing for cuts and scrapes, any blood that he might have missed that should be washed away.

There are several places where he can feel the irritation of hair having been roughly pulled out by the roots, and some blood because of it. He rinses it away, and goes over the same places again, to make sure.

In case she is feeling some discomfort, he talks to her. “How did this happen?”

She doesn’t open her eyes when she responds, “One of the guys… he caught me by the hair. Dragged me for a while before I got him to let go.”

Killian has to physically stop his hand from tightening in her hair. He knows that he was doing the right thing in keeping by Henry’s side, and if he hadn’t Emma would have never forgiven him.

The soldier in him can't help but need to protect everyone, though.

With one last quick run-through of her locks, he sits back. “It's nothing too serious. Best try not to touch your head for a while. You don’t want to make the irritation worse.”

He expects her to get up immediately, but she doesn’t. She's still and silent on the river bank, eyes still closed. There’s a warm swelling in his breast because maybe she’s comfortable, maybe she even enjoyed having him massage her scalp. Killian smiles and starts to lean down to do—to do he doesn’t know what but—

But she's sweating, and he can see the trembling in her arms, down in her legs when he checks the rest of her body.

_Fuck._

She’s having one of those moments again, the ones that cause her to lose her balance, start shaking, and he’s nearly positive that they have something to do with the fact that she thinks she’s dreaming, that she doesn’t know he’s real and this whole world is real even while she touches it.

They’ve lasted for varying lengths of time, and they seem to be getting worse the more she has them. Fear is cold as it slips down his throat into his stomach, but he’s tried to call her name before, tried to bring her back with touch and she doesn’t respond until the episode is over.

So Killian sits with her, lacing the fingers of one of her hands together with his, and waits. He dips his hook into the cold water of the stream and drags the curved end across her forehead, hoping the coolness will help with the sweat and heat enveloping her body.

He’s starting to think that maybe Tinkerbell actually had no idea what would happen when Emma drank the potion; they have been building bridges over old grudges as of late, even if she does like to play the occasional trick on him. But Tink likes Emma. She helped her, back in Neverland, and even admitted to him that she had hoped to grow closer with her, before the curse took over.

Besides, Tink’s become a fairy again. She’s not supposed to use her regained magic for mischief.

It isn’t long after that when Emma opens her eyes blearily. Her gaze fixes on him, and her expression clears. She seems to realize that they’re holding hands, and sits up, hair dripping down her back.

“Emma?” He tries, allowing her to pull her hand away from his. “What’s going on?”

Her jaw clenches, and he knows before she says anything that she won’t tell him. Something about what happens makes her wary of him, closing off, throwing her walls up like she always did when he first met her.

“Nothing.”

He turns away from her so that she won’t see his disappointment and gestures to his own head. “If you’re sure, then it’s your turn to check that I’m not fatally wounded.”

It distracts her well enough, small fingers threading through his hair, skimming along his scalp. It’s relaxing to have her touching him like this, almost intimately, and he savors it, all his attention focused on where their skin is meeting. She is delicate with him, especially around the bump, and a small smile plays around his lips.

It’s unexpected when she moves around on her knees and lifts his chin in her hands. He opens his eyes and she stares into them intently.

Emma breaks the moment. “Your pupils are the same size. No concussion, but we’ll have to keep an eye on it just in case.”

“Yes ma’am,” Killian chirps, and thinks he might see the ghost of a smile flit across her lips. “Now, if we’d like to be even more comfortable, we should strip and wash ourselves and our clothes.”

Emma closes off immediately, and says to him in no uncertain terms, “Absolutely not. We don’t have time. And I am not washing in a freezing stream that doesn’t even reach my knees.”

There is nothing more to be taken care of except her ankle. She does allow him to do that. He pulls his scarf from around his waist and wraps it tightly, enough that she can put some of her weight on it. Emma slides her boot back onto her foot and stands up, brushing dirt off her pants. Her hair lies flat against her head, soaking through her shirt until she shrugs her red jacket back on.

Killian really can’t help it; he steps up being her and wraps his arms around her waist. She starts, clearly caught off guard, and nearly elbows him in the stomach before she realizes that he is adjusting the scabbard hanging about her hips. He has seen the way it has been knocking around her legs as she walks, and the sloppiness of it irritates the naval man still inside him.

With a gentle tug, he fastens it snugly, and steps away from her, grinning. “That is how you belt your sword, miss Swan.”

Emma shakes out her hair, not meeting his eyes, and pointedly gestures onward. Killian gives a shallow bow before leaping lightly over the water. He then bends down and empties the dregs of rum from his flask, rinsing it out and filling it up with water.

“Who are you taking me to anyway?” Emma asks while crossing the stream.

Killian turns to her with a grin. “You remember Princess Aurora?”

Emma’s eyebrows rise in disbelief, and she snorts. “Do _you_?”

He pretends to think about it for a moment. “Purple dress, brown hair, eyes that you can get lost in?” She doesn't respond to his goad, merely walks on ahead of him. “She and Philip have settled in a nice, big castle about half a day’s walk from here, I'm told. Might be able to help us, or point us in the direction of someone else who can.”

It’s astonishing, how quickly they fall back into the banter. It’s very reminiscent of when they first met, and the climb up the beanstalk. She meets him word for word, rolls her eyes at him, doesn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, and is entirely competent.

Killian finds that he doesn't want to be here again. It took a lot of work, a lot of proof to get where they had left it, back with the curse rolling towards them and Emma ready to leave with her son. But he will prove it to her again. And again. And again, if he has to.

The sun is at its zenith when they really begin their journey. The trees filter out most of the direct light, so their eyesight isn’t impaired, but the heat still manages to sink in, especially with the physical exertion.

Emma’s breathing is loud and harsh in Killian’s ears, and although the wrapping around her ankle seems to be holding up well enough, there’s still a limp to her step. His own head is pounding with the sound of blood where he was knocked, and the thudding increases in pain the farther they go.

“So, darling…”

He doesn’t get farther than that, because Emma interrupts him. “Please. Not now. I have to focus on getting Henry back. We just—we need to get to Aurora.”

“Some conversation might move the journey along more easily.”

Emma stubbornly stays silent, and he sighs.

“I also thought it might distract us both from the bruising pain in our bodies.”

She glances at him sideways, but he doesn’t look back at her, eyes fixed steadily ahead. Direct eye contact too often has scared her off so far.

“You start then. What does the pirate want to talk about?”

He runs his hand through his hair, ignoring her jibe, and shuffles through subjects. He decides on one that he hopes is neutral enough. “Did you see how those sorry excuses for soldiers destroyed my ship?”

“I was there,” Emma says, a hint of humor in her voice. She drops back into seriousness, however, when she continues. “I’m sorry about that, by the way.”

It hurts to talk about, quite a bit more than he expected it would. “Your parents made that ship for me. Not themselves, of course, couldn’t find their way around a wood saw for the life of them, but it was their idea. I became rather attached to it.”

It’s a shock when Emma doesn't avoid the subject. “My parents… Snow White and Prince Charming.”

He can’t help but look at her then. “Aye.”

“And they got it for you?”

“Aye, I grew fond of them, in the time you were gone.”

Her brow furrows, lines forming between her eyebrows, like she’s trying very hard to remember something, or work out a problem. “And they sent me through a wardrobe into my world, and then I found them in Storybrooke when Henry came to get me, and I broke the curse.”

Killian has to remind himself to keep breathing; holding your breath while walking at a brisk pace is not a good idea. “Yes, that is how they tell it.”

“It’s impossible.”

“You still don’t believe your own eyes?”

“Part of me thinks I’m dreaming,” Emma admits, heaving herself up and over a large boulder in their path. “But you usually wake up from bad dreams, after you do something horrible. You don’t have to deal with the aftermath.”

“It’s not your fault, about Henry, lass. You did all you could. And we will find him, we will save him. You’ve done it before.”

Emma’s eyes drop to the ground, and she squares her shoulders. “I know. I have to. But that actually wasn’t what I was talking about.”

Killian waits for her to continue. It’s a long time before she does; he has given up on the conversation, telling himself to be happy with the little bit he got, when she speaks up again. “I killed someone.”

For some reason the thought had never occured to him. There were four dead soldiers when they finished fighting, and it didn't register that she might be upset about the one she took care of. He killed three of them, plus one of their horses, without blinking. He’s lost track of the number of people he’s killed over the years, whether in an angry drunken stupor, the cold slide of revenge, or on orders from Pan. Three more is nothing—three is laughable, in his hundreds of years.

Emma is barely thirty, and the hero of heroes at that. Her face is hard, eyes dry, but a muscle in her jaw is twitching, and Killian has to dig back into the depths of his memory for his first ever kill.

It was while he was still a lieutenant, under the command of his brother. In battle with the enemy, on the deck of his beautiful ship, in the sunlight. Sweat dripping into his eyes, adrenaline rushing through his veins, body moving in the drills he had been taught without thinking. Sword up, under the ribs, into the heart. Quick, easy.

“The first time I killed someone, I threw up.”

She’s obviously caught off guard at that. A strangled laugh escapes her throat before she shuts it down, but she doesn't stop the smile that worms its way onto her face. “Are you serious?”

“Like a man without his sea legs. Over the railing.”

“You’re kidding. You?”

Killian scowls at that. “I wasn’t always a hardened criminal.”

Emma looks to be thinking about what to say next before she asks, “What happened?”

“It was my first battle. Stabbed a man, right in the heart. It didn’t register until the battle was over of course, but once it did the image played itself in my head again and again. Covered my hands in blood when it happened. I ran up on deck and retched right over the side. My brother had to hold my hair back.”

“Sounds horrible,” She’s clearly trying to be sympathetic, but the humor in her voice undermines the effort.

“It bloody well was, and you can stop your giggling at any time.”

“The idea of you with someone holding your hair back while you throw up a little hard not to laugh at. You never told me you had hair long enough to get in your face.”

Killian absolutely refuses to rise to the bait. “It was the style back then.”

_Damn._

Emma doesn’t hold it back this time; her laugh rolls through her body, and Killian sees a lot of Charming in her in that moment. He laughs the same way—uninhibited, full-bodied, like what he has heard is the funniest thing in the realm.

It’s a bittersweet taste on his tongue.

He likes the look on Emma though. It’s rare enough that he has gotten to see her smile, let alone laugh with abandon. Not that laughing is something anyone ever wants to do in Neverland, especially with your son kidnapped by the devil himself. There wasn't much time for laughs, then.

When she's done laughing at him, Emma grins. “Did you have a ponytail? Tell me you had a ponytail.”

“I’m not going to talk about this anymore. This topic is no longer open for discussion.”

Her green eyes twinkle, but she drops it, smiling down at the ground she’s walking over. It's with a triumphant gait that Killian trudges along in an amiable silence for a while, keeping his ears perked up for any sound out of the ordinary, but it seems for now that they are the only ones in the forest. Animals skitter out of their way, into the underbrush, and they walk through patches of sunlight between the trunks of trees.

They make surprising time, considering the state of their bodies, but Emma’s face sets into the grim determination he memorized back in Neverland, and there is no chance of them slowing down.

It is a few hours later that Killian can’t ignore the resounding pounding in his head, or the growling of his stomach. He glances over at Emma, whose face is paler than it should be.

“Let’s rest for a minute, love.”

She shakes her head. “We have to get to Aurora, we need to rescue Henry.”

“Think of Neverland, Emma. We needed to rest in order to be well enough to save him. Don’t exhaust yourself. Let me take another look at your ankle.”

It takes less persuading than it might have usually, because Emma plops down on a log. She groans when she stretches out her leg, working the boot off of her foot gingerly. With one glance Killian can see that it’s more swollen than it was even a few hours ago; the scarf, which had been tied snugly, is now straining against her skin.

Emma tugs at it, unwinding the fabric and sighing as it comes loose.

Killian brushes his fingers lightly along the surface of her skin. “You can’t walk on this, Swan. You’ll make it much worse.”

“I have to. We need to get to Aurora.”

“Yes, but we need to make sure you’re healthy too.”

Emma narrows her eyes. “Healthy, even though we set out without eating anything since this morning. Besides, if Aurora’s living in a castle, she’s sure to have something to help us with our cuts. And my ankle, and that goose egg of yours.”

“Too smart for your own good, lass.” Killian tells her. “We _are_ resting, though.”

She allows him that, and sits back, resting on her hands. Killian leans with his back against the log she is sitting on, poking at the lump on the back of his head, assuming it is the 'goose egg' Emma referred to. She bends her knee next to him.

“How far are we?”

Killian squints up at the sky. It’s midafternoon, and they had been keeping a pace much faster than he thought they’d be able to sustain. With any luck, they'll be there before the sun sets in the evening.

“A few hours, maybe a little more, if we keep on the way we have been.”

Emma doesn’t respond. When Killian looks over at her, she’s slumped down over her knees, eyes closed, body shaking. His stomach leaps into this throat and he pulls her down next to him, cradling her head on his chest.

She unconsciously curls into him, and it breaks his heart when he sees tears squeeze out of the corners of her eyes.

Emma is gone for a while this time; Killian holds her as best he can, stroking her now-dry hair and rubbing his thumb over her arm when she whimpers. He feels helpless, useless. All he can do is whisper ‘sh’ into her ear as she cries and hope that she will snap out of it soon.

When she does, her chest is heaving and she grapples with the leather of his coat, holding it tightly. Even when she looks up and recognizes him, her eyes widening, she doesn’t let go. There are tearstains on her cheeks, and her lips are bitten raw.

“Emma…”

“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” her voice is hoarse, as though she’s been screaming. Maybe, wherever she had been in her head, she was.

“I don’t believe that. Emma, you must tell me what’s happening. You can’t keep collapsing like this when I don’t know what I can do to help.”

She can’t meet his eyes when she says, “I don’t think there’s anything that you can do to help.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“It’s these… memories,” Emma stares up at the patch of sky that can be seen between the leaves. “Or whatever they are. I keep remembering them, in flashes. I do remember it all. I mean, I think I remember it all, but it’s like my mind picks random ones to process at random points. But my other memories, of Henry and New York and how hard I worked with the courts to keep him and moving around the country. I remember those too. And it all feels glossy and fake, so maybe all of it’s real. Maybe none of it’s real. I can’t tell.”

He pulls her in closer, so that she’s flush against his side. “I’m real. You can feel me.”

“I don’t know.” Emma’s voice drops so low that it’s barely more than a breath. “Maybe I’m hallucinating all of this, too.”

“You're going to get Henry back. It’s going to be okay.”

Emma sighs and sits up, brushing the back of her hands across her face. “Henry’s in both sets of memories. He must be real. He might be the only thing that’s real. And I need him.” She reaches down to retie the scarf around her ankle, looser than last time.

Killian stands up and offers out his hand to help her to her feet. “And we shall find him, along with the rest of your family. I swear it, Emma.”

Her voice is too sad for him to bear when she answers. “I hope so.”

Their progress is slower this time around. Emma’s ankle is bothering her much more, although she refuses to say anything about it, and despite the frequent drinks of water Killian has started to feel dizzy and off-balance.

They end up sharing weight, leaning on each other. The sun has just set behind the trees, stars beginning to rise in the east when they reach the gates of the castle. It looks untouched, windows shining in the dimming light, spotless. They must have been skipped over in the wrath of the Black Fairy. There are guards atop the outer walls, and when the two limp up they are halted with a shout.

“State your business.”

Killian’s eyebrows rise. “Princess Aurora’s hospitality towards those in need?”

The guard leans down, looking them over. “And you are?”

“Ah, my name is of no consequence. But tell her that Emma Swan is back, and requests an audience.”

With a look of mixed suspicion and disbelief the guard disappears behind the battlements with strict instructions for his comrade to keep an eye on them. Killian ignores the man's studious gaze and instead turns to Emma.

“You holding up alright, darling?”

“About as well as you.”

He chuckles, shifting her arm around his shoulder. “I suppose we’ll both be needing a meal and a good night’s sleep.”

“So, you have to use my name just to be welcome, then?”

“The princess is sweet as sugar, but we haven’t had much interaction since Cora and I left you in Rumpelstilskin’s cell, so I thought I would be safe. I’m sure she’ll be excited to see you, Savior.”

The gates are thrown open then, and two people hurry out to meet them. One is undeniably Aurora; her sparkling smile would have made her unmistakable anywhere. The man by her side must be Prince Philip then. Killian gives him a once over. He’s nothing special decked out like any other prince, but he has a smile to match Aurora’s, which sets them together quite nicely.

Aurora sees him first. “Hook.”

“It's Killian, my dear.”

“Come to take my heart again?”

“So that was you,” Philip extends a stiff hand to shake.

Killian returns the gesture firmly. “I did give it back, if you recall.”

Aurora brushes around him to envelop Emma in her embrace. “I can’t believe you’re back! We were told that we were never going to see you again! How did you make it?”

Emma holds Aurora to her and catches Killian's eyes with her own wide ones as she does. He inclines his head at her. _Real. She is real._ Emma’s smile is tired, but sincere when she responds to the question. “I’ll tell you everything I can sort out, but maybe after some food? And sleep?”

“Of course, come in!” The princess leads her inside, taking most of Emma’s weight onto her shoulders. She glances back to where Killian is standing next to Philip. “I suppose you can come too.”

He grins. “The princess is as kind and gracious as I remember.”

Philip marches him inside by the elbow.


	5. cluster breathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sincerely sorry for how long this took to get done. I started working more than thirty hours a week in the past month, plus other social aspects that have made my down time downsize to about nothing. Hopefully updates in the future will be faster than this, but I can't promise anything.
> 
> That being said, enjoy!

When Emma wakes up the next day, she feels one hundred and ten percent better. She shifts her hips and pulls the covers up so they rest over her mouth, against her nose. Soft sunlight is streaming through the windows of her room, dust mites dancing in the glow. It’s a large, stone-walled room, rugs over the floor, furniture scattered about the place; Emma sits up, drawing the comforter up with her against her chest. Even those small movements echo in the air around her. She seems to be wearing a kind of night gown, one that she never would have picked out or even glanced at on her own.

There is the scraping of a door, and Emma whips her head around, ready to duck under the covers or smack someone if need be, but it’s only Aurora poking her head around the door frame. When she sees that Emma is awake, she throws the door all the way open to reveal that she is carrying a big silver tray piled high with food.

Emma lets her blankets fall, and scoots over to the edge of the bed, reaching out to help Aurora set the tray on the low table next to it. Aurora drags a chair over to sit on the other side and smiles.

“How are you feeling?”

Emma is still blinking sleep from her eyes when she says, “What time is it?”

“Late morning,” Aurora takes the jug from the tray and pours them both glasses. “We wanted to let you sleep, since you practically fell into bed last night. How are you feeling, Emma?”

Her hands shoot down to her ankle, poking at the skin around it tentatively. There is a slight burn, a protest under her fingers, but the insistent pain has receded. “A lot better,” she admits, reaching out gratefully to take the water Aurora is offering her. “I guess resting did it a lot of good.”

Aurora laughs, and it’s a bright, airy sound. “That, and a visit from our resident healer. He gave you a quick touch up.”

Emma raises her eyebrows, holding her glass with one hand and reaching out for a piece of fruit with the other. “There was someone in here doing, um, magic on me while I was sleeping?"

“Don’t worry,” Aurora picks up a biscuit and takes a small bite. “I was here. It only took a minute.”

Emma flexes her ankle slowly. There is no resistance. “What did I miss, while I was out? Did Hook behave himself?”

The princess rolls her eyes. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. We only ever got him to stop talking when we took him to see Mulan.”

“Mulan…” There are several bright flashes of a sword, hard and determined features, swift, fluid moves that flash through Emma’s head. “Mulan is here?”

Aurora’s face drops. “No. We are not sure where she is. She joined Robin Hood’s outlaws, and we haven’t seen or heard from her since. Our daughter’s name is Mulan.”

“Oh.”

There is a silence that stretches for leagues. Aurora sits and stares at her reflection in her glass of water and Emma very methodically eats her orange. It’s Aurora who breaks the silence, carefully placing her glass back down on the table and hitching a half-smile back on her face. It’s not the bright sunshine of her normal one, but it’s no less sincere.

“The pirate had quite a lot to say about you, you know.”

Emma stiffens. “Did he, now?”

“Something about Tinkerbell being rubbish at supplying details, and your memories not being restored correctly?”

Emma blows out a breath between her lips and shakes her head. “It’s all pretty fuzzy. I have these memories coming at me, ones that I’m told are the real ones, but they’re full of magic and dragons and sword fights, things that are supposed to be impossible. And then there are the other memories, the ones that I guess Regina gave me? And I held Henry in my arms after he was born, and I brought him up in New York. None of it makes sense.”

Aurora sits with her hands clasped in her lap, over the skirt of her dress. She waits until Emma finishes her orange and glass of water, and when she catches her eye, says, “Those nightmares that I told you about, that happen because of the Sleeping Curse, do you remember?”

Emma nods.

“I wake up disoriented every time. Sometimes just for a moment, before I realize what’s going on. Sometimes for a few minutes, or even an hour, before I can convince myself that I’m back in the land of the living, with a husband and a child and in my home.”

Emma bites her lip. “How do you convince yourself? That it’s real, I mean. How can you tell?”

“I have to believe.” Aurora says, rising to her feet. “I have to tell myself it is because if I don’t, I won’t be able to function. How can I love my people and my family when I’m never sure that they exist?”

“But I liked my life back in New York with Henry. It was simple; there was no magic, no curses to be lifted, no people to take care of except for each other. No Savior.”

Aurora smiles softly, like she knows too much, and Emma finds it difficult to keep her gaze. “Easier, you mean.”

Emma says nothing, picking at the orange peel with her fingernails.

“But here you have parents. You have realized so much about yourself, and your son, and the rest of your family. You saved an entire world of people. I would not have Philip, or Mulan without you. I would not have my heart without you. And when you were here in the Enchanted Forest more than a year ago, you were determined to get back to that place with curses and villains and monsters. Because it was real, and it held the people you loved.”

Emma can feel her lips quirk upwards in a smile. “Smart, for a princess.”

Aurora inclines her head, grin turning a bit mischievous. “No smarter than you, princess.”

Emma sighs and sinks back down into her bed. She allows the feather mattress to wrap her up in its arms, warm and slow, like honey. There are little sparkles of color dancing at the edges of her vision, and she smiles at them before the realization comes to her slowly, through a tunnel, that she is having another episode.

_Her chest is tight because this girl can speak to him, she can get through to her son when Emma herself can’t, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, that he is in this room full of fire because of her, that he was placed under a Sleeping Curse because of her and now a princess in a dirty, purple dress can see him when she can’t._

_Cora. Ashes. Home._

_“You’re going back to sleep, princess.”_

Aurora is sitting on her bed, brushing her hair out of her face when she comes to. Emma breathes heavily through her open mouth and tries to sit up, but Aurora gently pushes her back down by her shoulders.

“Rest for a minute. Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just one of those memory things. It’s been happening since I drank that potion.”

Aurora nods. “Hook told us about it.”

Emma allows herself to close her eyes, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. It’s burning, but as she keeps it there the heat quickly recedes. “What did he say?”

“Just that he’s worried about you, and what happens when you’re overcome. I told you once that he cares for you.”

“You were being controlled by Cora.”

“Which makes it no less true. He is not who he used to be, Emma.”

“You realize that you’re saying this about the pirate who literally took your heart out of your chest?”

Aurora smiles. “Where would we be in life if we never forgave? It was not long after that it was returned to me, by his hand, I’m told.”

Emma reaches for another piece of fruit because this dainty princess has far too much insight, but Aurora brushes her arm to the side, standing quickly and placing her hands on her hips. “I just came to check on you, but now that you’re awake and talking, it’s time for lunch. Wash up, and I will help you get dressed so we can meet up with Philip in the small hall.”

There is a connecting room that Emma hadn’t noticed before, with a tub already full of steaming water. Every muscle in her body loosens when she lowers herself into it and she sinks down so that only her face isn’t covered. Aches she hadn’t even registered disappear in the bath, and she spends a long time massaging knots out of her arms and neck.

When she emerges from the bath, red and dripping, Aurora is waiting for her, digging through the enormous wardrobe in the corner of the room. She hums in the back of her throat and pulls out a dress, holding it up for Emma to see.

“I’ll stick to my clothes, thanks,” Emma tells her before she can get a word out.

There’s some sort of glint in Aurora’s eye when she responds, “I took your over-clothes to be washed. You’ll have to borrow one of my dresses for a few hours, and then your own clothes will be returned to you.” The way she phrases things sound like requests, with an implied please at the end of everything, but never has Emma felt more unable to refuse.

She can honestly say she has never worn anything like this in her life. A dress is one thing—she still has those skin tight ones she used to wear when she was a bail bonds person—but there are ruffles and layers and a corset on this one that Aurora laces her into.

Hook and Philip are already seated when they enter, a tense kind of air between them as they purposefully avoid each other’s gaze. Hook’s blue eyes lift up at their entrance, and they widen almost comically, skipping from her shoulders to her breasts, down to her waist and taking in the skirt of the dress.

“I see you’ve assimilated, Swan,” he says, no lecherous grin on his face, nothing but the mildly cheeky comment to let her know how he feels about her new attire.

Emma determinedly ignores him, sitting lightly at the table across from him, and looks over at Aurora. She is smiling at Philip, who wears a matching grin, and Emma is suddenly hit with the suspicion that the two of them are much more devious than their appearance would lead someone to believe.

Lunch is served, brought out to them in courses, and Emma learns quickly that she knows absolutely nothing about how life works in a castle. She nearly stuffs herself on bread, cheese, and fruit when it is placed in front of her, and it’s only Hook’s laugh accompanied by Aurora’s hand on her arm that stops her.

There’s a wrinkle between Aurora’s eyebrows, a small frown pulling at the corners of her lips. “You can’t eat that much, Emma. You won’t have room for food from any of the other courses, and we have five more to go.”

There is also soup, cold meats, an entire course centered around fish, vegetable dishes swimming in butter, and pastries. By the end, Emma is only picking at her what's on her plate, and cursing the corset to hell and back for it’s confining nature.

Hook seems at home in the environment despite the hundreds of years of piracy that couldn’t have left him much time to dine with royals. He paces himself well with the meal, and during the soup course, interrupts the idle conversation to ask, “How is it that things are running so normally here? The entire rest of the kingdom has been ravaged by the Black Fairy, or the ogres.”

“We missed the worst of the attacks,” Philips tells him, taking a long sip of the sweet wine in front of him. “Ogres tend to stick to the forests where they won’t be seen. The Black Fairy seems to have skipped right over us.” He and Hook frown at each other at this, and some of the tightly wound air between them loosens.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Emma leans forward on her forearms, attempting to give her torso some relief. “Isn’t she trying to destroy everything that’s been built in the last year?”

“It is what we thought,” Aurora nods. “When we visited Snow and David’s palace earlier this year, we made tentative battle plans, but we never expected her to make a targeted attack. By the time we organized enough to send reinforcements, they were gone, so our soldiers came right back. We’re currently trying to amass forces enough to launch an attack, but we don’t have many who are trained to fight.”

Emma shrugs. “We’re going to go get them back, so it’s alright, you don’t have to endanger anyone.”

Philip raises his eyebrows in a very good impression of Hook. “By yourselves? I think not.”

“She is the Savior,” Hook points of, a hint of pride in his voice.

“Against an army? I would like the Savior to come out of that alive.”

“An escort would slow us down,” Emma argues. “Moving quickly and without people knowing we’re there is a little bit difficult when you have fifty in your group.”

Aurora's eyebrows draw together and down and she drums her fingers against the tabletop. “Can we compromise, then? A small group—ten.”

“Two.”

“Five.”

Emma breathes in sharply through her nose. “Four.”

Aurora appraises her for a moment, eyes flicking over her face, before nodding. “Four it is, then. They will be ready to depart whenever you are.”

Despite the uncomfortable fullness of her stomach, Emma pushes her chair back and stands up. “Now. We’re leaving now.”

Hook looks up at her from his place at the table, still seated. “Are you sure? If you recall, we’ve suffered somewhat serious wounds in the past day. They must be watched carefully.”

“We’ve rested. We’ve been checked out.” Emma's hand goes to her scalp anyway, feeling around the area where she had been dragged, by her hair, down the cobblestone street. The skin is tender, and she is missing a small yet noticeable patch, but there are no scabs, no cuts. “We have been healed. It’s time to find my son again.”

Aurora stands up and covers one of Emma’s hands with her own. “Unless you want to go riding in that dress, you will have to at least wait until your clothes are returned to you.”

Hook stands as well, rolling his shoulders slightly. “Does this mean that you will be giving us horses?”

“We can't very well have you trying to make the journey on foot, not when we have mounts to spare.” Philip waves his hand, and servants step out from the corners of the room to clear the dishes of their finished lunch.

Emma can feel her shoulders sag, looking over at Aurora. “I can’t sit around and do nothing when I’m not sure what is happening to Henry. Or…” she glances at Hook, “anyone else.”

“Don’t worry, sitting idly by is not on the schedule for today.” Aurora nods at Philip, and he makes for the door to the hallway. “Come with us to the council room. We will tell you all we know of the Black Fairy. Something that might mean Hook here will finally have something helpful to contribute.”

He flashes a bright white grin at her, dipping into a shallow bow with a flourish. “I see you have a use for me after all, darling.”

“Hopefully not for long. Maybe then Emma will let me lock you up in the dungeon.” Aurora’s smile is sweet, like poisoned honey. Emma is transfixed by their back-and-forth, the ease with which they slide around each other as though on ice. Hook turns and meets her eyes, something in his expression softening. He straightens back up and follows them out of the room, after Philip’s retreating back down the hallway.

It is a long walk from the room where they ate to the council chambers. Emma marvels at the vastness of the castle; from what she can tell it isn’t quite as large as the Summer Palace, but she has never been in a castle while it has been inhabited, and without the clutter of ruined furniture. Strangely, with people rushing back and forth, the place feels larger, as though it expands to accommodate everyone who enters.

The council chambers are in a part of the castle that Aurora calls ‘the main audience rooms’. It is a cluster of huge rooms meant to hold sometimes thousands of people at a time; a room for feasts, the ballroom, the audience chamber where Aurora and Philip would listen to requests from their people, and the council chambers where they and their advisors would meet to discuss pressing issues.

It’s a room that gives off a surprisingly warm feeling. All the furniture is dark wood, bookshelves lining the walls, a chandelier over the table swinging back and forth slightly in the breeze that sweeps through when they open the door. Parchment maps are on the table, curling at the corners. Philip sets an unlit candle on one side, holding it down, and an inkwell on the other. Hook falls in beside him, giving the map a cursory glance.

“This is the Summer Palace,” Philip points to a star in the corner, right by the sea. “And our castle is here,” he moves his finger in a straight line southeast, through a small branch of the forest, stopping and tapping it on a smaller star.

Hook is squinting at the lines on the map. “Your cartographer should find a new profession.” He gestures with his hook at the sea. “He has no concept of the size or placement of any of the islands.”

“Later, Hook,” Emma says, moving around so that she can see the map from the correct angle. “We don’t have time to complain about things that don’t matter. You were the one who was so worried about time constraints when you came to find me in New York.” She tries to bend over the table to get a closer look, and gets a rude reminder that she is wearing a corset underneath her dress.

Aurora sits down and clasps her hands in front of her. “The scouts that we have sent out tell us that the Black Fairy settled herself into the abandoned palace west of here. She has rebuilt most of it, although new quarries have had to be started to find the stone for it.”

“Abandoned?”

“A long time ago, there was a line of kings and queens who lived there, in what people say was the ‘golden age’. It lasted for over a hundred years, before there was a massacre within its walls. No one has lived there since. Until the Black Fairy, apparently. Although we aren’t quite sure when she moved in.”

Emma frowns. “How is it that no one noticed what was happening?”

Philip is measuring leagues when he answers. “While everyone was back in your realm, we barely had enough people to clear out the ogres from the surrounding forest, and we lost a few along the way. We were somewhat preoccupied.”

“She kept a fairly low profile,” Aurora adds. “She had carved out a place for herself, she wasn’t going to bother us in our little corner. Not when she had the rest of the kingdom.”

The tip of the silver hook draws lightly across the parchment before Philip hisses that he’ll cut the paper and it is taken away. “And for some reason the ogres left her alone?”

“We can’t say for sure. It wasn’t until the prince and princess came back with the rest of you that we had the people and time to spare, to start scouting the kingdom again thoroughly.”

Aurora crosses her arms and looks at Hook. “This isn’t information you could have filled Emma in on before?”

Hook looks stricken, face drawn tight for a moment. “Stuffy rooms and monotonous debates are not my idea of a good time, love.” His words are light, but something behind his tone makes Emma’s stomach swoop, and she stares back at the map.

“It isn’t far from here,” Philip says, standing back up straight. “If you ride hard, you could make it in maybe two days. Three at a slower pace, which I would recommend. The land begins sloping upwards, and the soil gets rocky. You should let the horses watch their footing.”

“Three days?” Emma swallows hard around the lump in her throat. “We’ve already wasted one.”

“On foot it would be longer,” Aurora points out.

“We can’t be more than a day and a half behind them,” Hook adds. “Even if they are on horses, they can only ride during the day, and we will have horses too. Worrying yourself won’t help anyone.”

Emma can feel her face heating up. She’s tired of people telling her to calm down, tired of them telling her to slow down, tired of them telling her what to do period. She’s stuck in a world where everything she knows is proved false and she has an entire family that she doesn’t remember; all of her memories with her son, the sacrifices that she had to make and the times that she was afraid she would fail and the moments where she knew she did well, they’re all fake.

Something must show on her face, because Hook takes a half step forward, but before he can say anything there is a knock on the closed door, and a girl steps into the room without waiting for an answer.

She looks young, maybe a year or two older than Henry, and she curtsies prettily before saying, “Excuse me Princess, but Mulan is awake. She is asking for you.”

Aurora stands immediately, brushing out the wrinkles in her dress. “Sorry, I told them to fetch us when she woke.” She hesitates. “Would you like to meet her?”

They walk back across the castle to near where they had lunch, and sweep into what looks like a smaller version of the audience room, complete with a bench on a small dais for Aurora and Philip to sit on. They throw open the doors to a room off to the side. It has a soft atmosphere, yellow curtains glowing in the sunlight, gold paint on the crib where a little girl with big brown eyes and wisps of soft brown hair stands, hands grasping the railing.

“Mama!” she burbles, “Papa!”

Philip lifts her up out of the crib and balances her on his hip, bouncing up slightly on his toes. Aurora allows her to wrap one of her small hands around her finger.

“Mulan…” she says. “This is Princess Emma.”

Like her parents, Mulan has a smile that lights up the entire room. She reaches out with her hands towards Emma, and before she knows it there is a baby in her arms. Her hands move automatically, one supporting underneath, one bracing on the side. Mulan tangles her hands in Emma’s hair, sticks the ends of it into her mouth and blinks up at her.

Or are her eyes brown? They might be green. And her smile might transform into one a little smaller, more secretive, and she’s a little bit heavier and Emma feels like her entire body is flushing.

_She can feel the sweat dripping down her face, underneath her hospital gown, which is sticking to her skin, soaked through. Her hair is matted, unkempt, and she feels like she can’t breathe, still sucking in air for her oxygen-starved lungs._

_When she can feel the bed beneath her once more, the cool metal of the rail under her hands and the sharp bite of the handcuffs around her wrist, she twists her head away from where she knows the doctor is holding the baby._

_“It’s a boy…”_

_She shakes her head, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes, lip trembling, and her heart rate picks up again._

_“I can’t be a mother.”_

_There is a small pause. “Emma, you know you can change you mind.”_

_She does not look. If she looks, she is lost._

Yellow is what she registers first. Yellow, and something wet on her cheeks. Before she even remembers where she is, she brings up her hands to wipe the tears away, leaving salt streaks in their wake.

Emma is flat on her back in the nursery, blinking hard to clear her vision. Three faces come into focus above her. Hook is closest, using the curved side of his hook to brush her hair away from her face, his other arm cradling Mulan close to his chest. Aurora is on her knees, leaning over her with brows furrowed, one hand on Philip’s arm who looks like he is ready to call for a doctor.

When she sits up on shaky arms, they let out a collective breath and move back. Aurora takes Mulan from Hook, and once his hand is free he moves it to the small of Emma’s back, supporting her while she takes deep, slow breaths.

“Does this happen often?” Philip asks, voice roughened with worry.

Emma squeezes her eyes shut because _oh god Henry, no_ , and after a moment, Hook answers for her. “It happens at least a few times a day, although I suspect more often and she simply does not tell me.”

When she feels like she can talk again without rasping, she murmurs, “I’m right here, you know. I can answer for myself.”

Philip repeats the question. Emma answers, begrudgingly, “A few times a day.”

“How can you expect to travel like this? You nearly dropped Mulan—you won’t be able to sit a horse!”

“Philip, enough.” Aurora extends a hand to Emma, pulling her to her feet. Hook’s hand is there, doesn’t leave when she is standing, and she finds herself leaning into him slightly, completely drained.

The air feels cold on her skin now, compared to the heat wave that washes over her before the memories come. Emma shivers slightly, and sighs. Aurora kisses Mulan on the crown of her head and places her gently back in her crib. She looks to Philip, who nods his head slightly.

“I’ll stay with her. Take Emma to our healer.” He shifts his gaze to her. “We cannot let you leave in good conscience without at least having someone see if there is anything that can be done.”

They pass the room Emma had slept in on the way, and Aurora pokes her head in, but her clothes aren’t back yet. A short walk later, down a few flights of stairs, and they’re in a cold room devoid of all color and decorations. There are old shelves over counters, mortar and pestles, herbs and liquids in various containers, but nothing else that isn't for a specific purpose.

Emma didn’t know what she had been expecting at the word ‘healer’, but it was certainly not what she found. The man who turned around when they entered was tall, straight-backed and dark-skinned, large eyes framed by long lashes, and simple, practical clothing.

She looks up at Hook, who has stuck close by her side the entire walk. “No old woman with wrinkles and feathers in her hair?” she tries, but feels the words fall a bit flat.

He raises his eyebrows, clearly indulging her. “Tell me again where you got your information about our realm, love? Your source is unreliable.”

“Emma,” the man nods at her, and Emma isn’t sure how to respond to someone that she met while asleep. She settles for not saying anything at all; she is still a little shaky on her feet, a little dizzy in her head. There is a dull pounding behind her eyes.

Aurora explains the situation as she best can. Emma allows her eyes to flutter and her head to touch Hook’s shoulder, only vaguely listening. Every once in a while Aurora will ask her to clarify something, to which Emma will answer in a low voice. Hook’s arm creeps around her waist, but when she doesn’t pull away he leaves it there, pulling her closer to his body.

Emma focuses on her in and out breathing, on keeping the tears that are threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes at bay.

A few minutes later Hook gives her a gentle push and she opens her eyes. The man is beckoning her over. “I have not heard of something like this happening before, and I can’t promise that I can help if I do find something.” He pats the counter next to him. “I will check, however.”

Emma hops up onto the counter so that she is level with his eyes. He traces his gaze over her face, and places his hands on her knees. “Close your eyes,” He tells her. “Relax. I’m going to do an exploratory search. If there is anything wrong, I should sense it.”

She tries to do as she says, but having a strange man’s hands on her keeps her shoulders tight, her muscles strung out. It isn’t until something seeps into her veins, a lazy sort of winding feeling, that she feels her spine curve, leaning back into the wall behind her.

Emma can't guess how long she stays like that, magic tracing through her body. It runs up to her temples, down along her neck and spine, into her fingers and toes. When it leaves, retreating back into the man’s hands, Emma’s eyes snap open. She feels like little bits of electricity are dancing along her skin, and she jumps off the counter onto her feet. Her ankle makes no protest.

“Well?” Hook’s eyes are anxious, as are Aurora’s behind him. Emma takes a little bit of time to roll her wrists, her neck, bounce up on her toes for a minute. Her body moves perfectly.

“I feel great.”

The healer shrugs his shoulders minutely. “There is nothing that I could find. Digging any deeper would mean probing into her mind, and that can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re looking for.” He turns to Emma. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

She smiles at him. “That’s okay. Whatever else you did fixed all my injuries.”

He frowns slightly. “I did nothing except look.”

“Maybe her body has fully accepted your healing from earlier?”

The healer looks at Aurora when she says this, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps.”

Emma is barely listening to them. “We should go now. I feel great, you’ve told us where to go next and my clothes must be done by now. We have time before the sun sets. We should leave.”

Hook nods. “I see no reason to linger.”

Aurora sighs. “We’ll make the preparations. It will only take a few minutes to gather the soldiers and saddle the horses. We have already packed bags of provisions for the two of you.”

Emma’s clothes are neatly folded on the bed when they get back to the room. Aurora sends Hook and Philip off to the stables to help with the horses, and sits on the bed while Emma changes, fiddling with the comforter nervously.

“Aurora, can you…?” she gestures in the general direction of the laces of her corset. Aurora moves to help her immediately, fingers quick and sure even as Emma can hear her chewing on her bottom lip.

“Hook told us…” she pauses, takes a deep breath, and allows the words to escape her in a rush. “He told us that Mulan and Robin’s outlaws were at the castle when it was attacked, and that he doesn’t know precisely what happened to her.”

Emma doesn’t answer. It isn’t long before Aurora continues. “We can’t come with you, having a daughter to take care of, but we would otherwise. When you rescue Henry, could you check for us, to make sure that she is well? And if she is, could you tell her that we would like to see her again?” Emma laces are undone by this point, so she shrugs out of the corset, and back into her own clothes.

Aurora is standing, twisting her hands together when Emma turns around, fully dressed. She leans down to pull her boots back on and watches Aurora’s face. It passes through several different expressions in a short span of time, finally landing on apprehension.

“Please tell her that we miss her.”

Emma places a hand on Aurora’s shoulder. “I will.”

Out at the stables, six horses have been saddled, and four men are standing, Philip and Aurora’s crest on their breasts, stoic and unblinking. Next to them, Hook looks even more the pirate, his leathers standing out ostentatiously. He helps her into her saddle and then mounts his own horse, the soldiers following suit.

“Be careful,” Aurora says, head tilted upwards, hair caught and glowing in the afternoon sun. “I'll see if I can contact Henry or Snow, if we're in the world of the Sleeping Curse at the same time, to let them know that you are coming.”

“Thank you,” Emma tells them, sincerely. Hook merely grins.

“Until next time, princess.”

“Hopefully later rather than sooner, pirate.”

Hook gives his horse a solid nudge, and it trots out the gate, Emma and the four soldiers following closely behind.


	6. cheyne-stokes respiration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a longer chapter because you guys have been so patient with me. Thanks for sticking with this story, even with the breaks between chapters.

It’s an easy ride. The packed dirt roads are wide enough that all six of them could have ridden abreast if they cared to. As it is, the soldiers take their duties very seriously, two insisting on taking point, in front of them, and two watching their backs at the rear.

The land is flat for now, tall trees on either side of the path, and all stones have been cleared. The horses follow the trail by themselves, so Killian is left to sit back in his saddle and fiddle with the reins. Even that turns out to be something he can’t keep up, because his horse nickers and shakes her head with what sounds like an irritated huff of air, so he stops.

Despite the ease of the trip, Emma’s face is contorted in discomfort and she lurches with every step her horse takes.

“Never sat a horse before, love?” he teases, nudging his own closer so that their legs brush as they ride.

“It isn’t exactly a main form of transportation in my world,” she snaps, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle and causing the horse to shy just a bit.

Killian restrains the impulse to roll his eyes. He reaches over and grabs her thigh, causing her to jump. “Sit still. They’re smart creatures—they can tell if you’re nervous, and that makes them nervous. Believe me, you do not want to be atop a skittish mount.”

“It’s hard to sit still when it feels like I’m going to fall off every time this thing moves.”

“Sit back in the saddle. Sit _back_. Swan.”

He can see pinkness beginning to tinge her cheeks as he tries to angle her hips into the saddle, and can’t help but allow his fingers to drift just a bit lower on her back, brushing the small stretch of skin not covered by her shirt. Her eyes flick over to him quickly before looking straight ahead, and he smiles before sitting fully back into his own saddle.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” she admits, shifting back and forth, gripping the saddle horn tightly and leaving the reins to dangle across her horse’s neck. “It’s so uncomfortable.”

“Distract yourself,” Killian suggests lightly.

Emma rolls her eyes at him, clearly assuming what he means by the comment, but she smiles with just the smallest hint of teeth at it. “How do you propose I distract myself?”

“Watch,” he points to the forest around them. “Scorch marks—and there, where the bark has been scraped off the trees.”

Emma cocks her head to the side, following his finger. “We haven’t been riding that long. Ogres?”

He shakes his head. “I doubt it. They tend to make much more of a mess. This seems to be of human origin, and out of place disturbances like that rarely occur unless some kind of battle was fought.”

Her eyebrows rise on her forehead. “A battle? All the way out here by Philip and Aurora’s castle? I thought they missed the fighting.”

“Their castle and protected city did, certainly. But perhaps the surrounding countryside did not fare as well.”

“How do you know this? You’re a pirate; ‘forest battles’ aren’t your forte.”

He counts to three against the momentary twisting behind his ribs. “A year with your mother is enough to teach a man all he needs to know of survival out in the woods. Add in the outlaw and I’d say I’m fluent. Also, if you recall, I was a lieutenant before I was a pirate. Those lessons aren’t ones that are easy to forget.”

She’s silent for a moment, head following the blackened branches and singed grass along the side of the path. “You didn’t take the opportunity,” she says, posture noticeably less rigid, fingers no longer white-knuckling the saddle horn.

“Opportunity?”

She meets his eyes, quizzical, searching. Like she is trying to figure him out. “For an innuendo. It was wide open.”

“There is a time and a place for suggestive phrases, and before pointing out someone else’s likely kidnap or possible death is not one of them.”

Emma _hmm_ s in her throat, eyes dropping back to the trail they ride.

The longer they trot on, the more obvious the signs of struggle become. Broken arrows start to litter the side of the road where they bounced off the trees they hit, entire patches of grass are torn up and scattered, and as they turn a sharp corner, the soldiers in front of them come to a sudden stop.

There is a deep hole in the road, chunks of dirt as large as rocks spreading out from the center, dust coating the trees on either side. Where the blast originated, the ground is completely black, a material that looks almost like cinders stuck to the hardened earth.

The soldiers dismount and Killian follows, holding the reins of his horse as he does.

One of the soldiers leaps down into the ditch, boots skidding over the heat-hardened soil, almost causing him to stumble. The other watches, holding their two mounts steady, although the way they throw their heads and snort indicates that they would be much more comfortable if allowed to bolt.

“Battle magic,” the soldier down in the hole is muttering, bending down to rub some of the black soot between his thumb and forefinger. It dissolves in a puff of blue smoke, and he jerks his head out of the way.

Killian grimaces. “Fairy wars?”

Emma and the two rear guards walk up, standing on the rim with him. One of them frowns. “I’ve never seen fairies use their magic for anything good before, not even when threatened or attacked.”

Killian can feel his muscles stiffening involuntarily. “They aren’t supposed to use their magic for anything but the greater good. They aren’t _allowed_ to, by their own laws.”

“It must have been a pretty severe threat if this fairy went against her own rules.” Emma’s face is drawn tight, a bit paler than usual. She takes a small step backwards, into the chest of her horse, which whinnies.

“Are you all right?” Killian asks, turning from the four soldiers who now have their heads together, glancing between each other and the crater next to them.

She shakes her head minutely. “I don’t know… I feel—“ she falters, swallowing. “I feel strange. Under my skin, in my bones.”

“Do you want to sit for a moment?”

“It’s not bad strange,” Emma corrects, running her fingers over the goose bumps that have popped up on her arms. “Just… strange.”

“We’ll be away from here soon.”

Even as he says the words, the soldiers are mounting back up, faces set into grim lines. “We’ll have to ride around it,” one of them announces, kicking his heels into his horse’s flanks. “Keep an eye out. This probably won’t be the only one we see, and we can’t be sure what’s still lurking out there.”

They have to skirt into the fringe of the trees to avoid the hole, the horses dancing as they do. The strain in Emma’s face dissipates as they get farther from the scene, and he hears her breathe out loud in the still air after a few minutes of riding.

“The Black Fairy?” she asks him quietly.

Killian licks his lips. “Aye. We saw burnt villages, razed forests, piles of dead bodies even while we were scouting, but never anything like that. I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”

Emma bites her bottom lip, brows furrowed. “Since we have time, while we’re riding, would you mind… do you think you could help me with some of the memories that I’m having?”

He can feel his eyes widen, but can’t care how it makes him look, a stutter of hope flickering in his heart. “Of course, love. However I can. What brought this on?”

“I don’t want to face the Black Fairy and not know anything about my life. I want to feel like I can trust my own thoughts again.”

“It is admirable of you, to face something so difficult. Where do you want to start?”

It’s like he has opened a dam. Once she starts, it seems that she can’t stop—her parents, Regina, traveling through portals, her past with Neal. Some things he cannot help her with, but enjoys hearing about anyway. There are some stories about Ruby and her outfits that he hasn’t been regaled with before, and is quite entertained by. Whenever she and Henry had a day off they seemed to get into some sort of trouble, and he laughs so hard he almost falls off his horse when she tells him about what she calls “The Peanut Butter Incident”.

There are some things, however, that he can confirm, whether because he was there himself to witness, or he has been told about it by someone else who was.

“When Henry was five he decided that instead of eating his cake at his birthday party, he wanted to smear the icing all over his face instead.”

She’s looking up at him from underneath her thick, dark lashes, and it’s hard to swallow around the lump in his throat because she knows the answer to this one. He can tell by the way she says it, not as a question, her voice too soft, her lips turned down at the corners.

“No,” Killian responds, even though the words fight him on the way out. “You didn’t meet Henry until he was ten.”

She turns her head away from him for a second, and he traces the creases in his saddle while she composes herself. He can feel her eyes on him when she turns back, but her expression is not what he expected at all.

She has flames dancing behind her eyes, a flush in her cheeks and there is a muscle ticking in her jaw. When she rolls her head on her neck, blonde hair falling over her shoulders, he can actually feel the anger sizzling off of her.

“Regina,” she gets out from behind her tongue pressed to the back of her teeth.

“Aye, she did have him in the time you were absent.”

“She gave me these fake memories.”

“She did.”

“I’ll kill her.” Emma’s hands are shaking now, holding the reins too tightly. Her horse kicks up its hind legs and tosses its head in response. “She had no right. Going into my head like that, changing things around, giving me memories that aren’t real, that never happened.”

Killian is at a loss. “She told you she was going to do it; you seemed amenable to the idea when she proposed it.”

“And now look at me!” Emma’s voice is loud enough that one of the soldiers riding in front of them looks around. “I can’t figure out what’s real, I can’t remember if I’m a good mother or a terrible one, I can’t decide if I should even believe this love that I feel for these people I’ve never met, or if I should be afraid of them.”

That he has an answer for. “Love them. They would give up anything for you. Your parents—“

“My parents!” she laughs, and he has never heard anything more frigid. “The people who had their own memories altered for twenty-eight years, and didn’t bother to warn me about what would happen! How disorienting it would be, how awful and sticky and guilty I would feel.”

“I’ll thank you to not talk about the prince and princess in such a manner.” He can hear his voice, clipped, short in his ears. “They did what they thought was best. As did Regina. We thought you would never come back to us. We thought we had lost your forever.” He manages to stop his voice from breaking on the last word.

Emma looks like she is about to speak when they come across another crater, the blast of this one having taken out several trees to either side. She snaps her mouth shut and draws back in on herself, hunching her shoulders.

They fall into a line, one behind the other, and Killian resists the urge to keep checking over his shoulder. He doesn’t need to see her to know what she looks like; he can feel it searing into the leather of his coat, can smell the smoke of the crisping edges.

The soldiers urge their horses into a canter despite the fact that the path is getting rougher. An air of urgency has fallen over their party, to the point where no one questions when one of the soldiers falls back and hands out bread, cheese and fruit silently to eat while they ride.

The sun is beginning to set over the tops of the trees, the horses’ hooves are muffled by the dirt of the road, and Emma sits with her head tilted down, avoiding looking at the signs of destruction that are now everywhere they turn. Their pace slows even as their speed increases, because taking detours is the norm when the path is all but obliterated. Eventually they choose to pick their way through the actual forest itself, attempting to stay parallel to the trail that they can sometimes glimpse through the foliage.

Killian can feel the chill of the evening beginning to set in, hitting the exposed back of his neck and brushing across him whenever he falls into shadow. The dusk birds sing around them, interrupted only by the hum of cicadas and the breaking of twigs.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Emma sit ramrod straight, tensing and whipping her head around to the right, in the direction of the road. He reaches out to her without thinking, a concerned inquiry on his lips, when he hears them too.

Voices rumble toward them, too far away to make out the words, but Killian knows that any strangers are not people they want to be running into in these parts, and he pulls his horse to an abrupt stop with the reins. The soldiers seem well-trained enough that they have noticed the disturbance as well, and the ones in front circle back around, motioning with their hands to follow them deeper into the woods.

The six of them slide off their horses and lead them on foot, the two in back still keeping a decent distance between them so they can keep a close eye on the rear. Killian keeps his ears pricked for any small noises, but he hears nothing except the soft breathing of his companions. The hair on the back of his neck is prickling, however, and he can feel the tension sloughing off of Emma in waves.

They reach a clearing where the ground slowly slopes downwards, ending in a black, muddy puddle lapping at the grass insistently. The horses wicker softly and tug their riders forward to the water. Killian realizes they haven’t passed a river the entire time they have been riding, and the sun hadn’t exactly been gentle during the daylight hours. He follows his horse to the pond, tonguing his cheek in distaste when his boots squelch through mud.

The forward scouts reach the water first, kneeling to refill their empty water canteens. Their eyes jump from place to place, but they seem to think they have retreated far enough from the path to pause for a moment. The horses guzzle, flicking their tails at the flies on their flanks, barely stopping to breathe between swallows.

One of the soldiers turns and nods at Killian and Emma, who have stopped by the water line, letting go of their reins to allow their horses to drink too. “You should refill yours as well; we won’t have a chance once we make camp tonight. No one is going to be wandering off in the dark.”

He barely finishes his sentences before one of the horses freezes and lets out a scream. Killian jumps and moves instinctively closer to Emma, the sound crawling into his body unpleasantly. Emma's hand shoots out and clutches at his jacket, grip so tight that he can see the crescents her nails leave in the leather.

The horse’s scream doesn’t stop, actually changes in pitch as it continues, higher and even more inhuman. The animal’s eyes are so wide he can see the whites around the edges, and its muscles are trembling but locked in place. The scream is cut off suddenly, and the horse collapses, half in and half out of the water, apparently dead.

Emma gasps, breath starting up again, and Killian starts toward the animal’s body, but she doesn’t let go of him, and he jerks backwards at her resistence. The other horses start to follow suit, sounds rising in a cacophony of noise that Killian is sure the people on the path could hear, even if they didn’t follow them into the forest. His attention is distracted, however, when Emma drops to her knees shivering, eyes locked on the two soldiers still kneeling by the pond. He spins to see what has her gaze so fixed.

They are _clawing_ at their throats, faces going purple from lack of oxygen, tearing ragged cuts into their own flesh with their nails, eyes pleading. Killian wraps his arms around Emma and watches in horror while their lips turn blue, blood gushes from their throats, and they tumble over to lie on top of each other, eyes glassy.

“What the fuck,” Emma is muttering, unable to rip her eyes away from the six dead bodies that were alive and moving just moments ago. “What the _fuck_ is happening, what the _fuck_ —“

Killian shakes himself into action, snagging one of the canteens from the dead soldier’s body and spinning on his heel. A cursory glance around the clearing tells him that the soldiers who were behind them haven’t made it, which could only mean they were caught by whomever they had heard earlier.

He grabs Emma roughly by the upper arm and drags her to her feet. “We don’t have time, love.” Killian tries to keep his voice low and steady, but his heart is pounding somewhere in his stomach and the image of the men ripping open their own throats keeps replaying itself in his mind. “We can mourn later—right now we have to move.”

That seems to wake Emma from whatever haze she is in, and although the skin of face is slightly gray, she nods.

“We’ll head north,” Killian points into the trees which are stained red and gold by the last rays of the setting sun. “North and west was the direction of the Black Fairy’s castle.”

They manage to pull the bags with the food and other provision from the saddles underneath the bodies of the horses. Killian spends a few precious seconds dipping a leafy branch into the water of the pond. For a moment nothing happens, and he arches an eyebrow, eyeing the muddy pond again.

Emma then curses, and Killian’s attention is brought back to the leaves, which are now glowing a bright red poisoned with black threads throughout. The black spreads until it encompasses the entire breadth of each leaf, and begins to dissolve the material.

Killian drops the thing immediately, locking eyes with Emma whose mouth is twisted in repulsion. She uncorks her own canteen and pours water over his hand, cleaning off the areas that touched the branch. He wipes his fingers on his leather pants, and then takes a few steps up the hill. “Time to go, Swan.”

She follows without question, keeping a steady pace with his larger steps, eyes focused on the ground so she can hop over the stones and bushes that loom up out of the encroaching darkness. Their shoulders brush as they walk, pace faster than is comfortable for him, so it must be somewhat trying for her. She doesn’t complain, doesn't say a word, just follows his lead, and Killian takes the hint from her.

They don’t stop until night has truly fallen and they can see the stars peeking out from behind the leaves above them. He worries that they haven’t made it far enough from the clearing to relax, let alone sleep, but stumbling on blindly would be a bad idea, not when they have a fixed goal and don’t know their way around these woods.

He has never wished for Snow or Robin’s companionship more.

They halt beneath a huge oak tree, gnarled and old. Fallen leaves are scattered about the base, and the ground is flat and dry. Killian tries to smile at Emma, but he can feel how forced it is, how insincere. Emma drops to the ground, pulling her jacket more tightly about her body and leaning her back against the trunk.

Killian sits next to her, setting their packs down lightly, and then pulls out the dead soldier’s canteen. He studies it from various angles, but from the outside nothing appears to be amiss.

Surprisingly, Emma speaks first. “I don’t understand. If that water disintegrates everything it touches, why can the canteen hold it?”

He grits his teeth, feeling as though a weight has settled onto his shoulders. “I wish I could say.” When he uncorks it and peeks inside, the water glistens in the cold light of the stars, unassuming, innocent. But when he dips another leaf into it, the same reaction occurs. “I’ve no doubt that it is magic, however.”

Emma leans over to look down the neck as well. “It seems like something that Regina’s magic would do. Or Gold’s.”

A small part of him leaps to attention at her acknowledgment of those memories, but he bites the words back before they escape his lips; not the time, or the place. “Those two are fonder of curses and spells that have their own life, although you could be right. But this magic is red—then black. I’ve never known magic of either of those colors.”

Emma breathes two words into the space between them. “Fairy magic?”

He doesn’t answer. Fairy magic is the most powerful force of good in the entire realm, almost the most powerful magic in existence, rivaled only by the Dark One’s power, and Pan’s iron fisted rule in Neverland. Magic that good, that bright, being warped into something as dark as poison, death magic; Killian can’t even imagine the havoc that would wreak.

He uses his teeth to place the cork back into the canteen and places it carefully at his side. Emma watches him closely.

“I guess it could be good to have something like that on hand. If we need it.”

Killian closes his eyes briefly. “You should get some sleep. I’ll take first watch, and wake you in a few hours.”

“Not too long,” she tells him after a long pause. Emma slides down onto the ground and curls up with her back facing him. He shrugs out of his coat and drapes it gently over her body, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders.

She doesn’t make any move to push it back at him.

He has no real intention of waking her up any time soon; Killian has had years of practice going without sleep, too many years to count, this past one being one of the worst. Instead, he listens to the sleepiness of the forest around him and counts the constellations that pass overhead.

If it is fairy magic, there is the troubling question of which fairy it originated from. The obvious answer would be the Black Fairy, but the evidence of the day would lend itself to suggesting a good fairy fighting for her life, resorting to the war magic that she was never supposed to use. He also recalls Tinkerbell explaining that a fairy's magic cannot be truly channeled without a wand, and the Blue Fairy confiscated the Black Fairy's before exiling her.

But there had been no scorch marks from any kind of blast around the crater as there had been where other fairies fought. Grass had been growing down the slope of it, and it had to at least have been some time ago for water to collect there. Unless it was a purposeful spell placed by someone wishing to spread death.

Such random murder, though! There is no logic behind the area chosen to place the spell. It is a ways off the road itself. Someone would have to travel through the woods with no markers whatsoever to even find it. Most killing has some sort of rhyme or reason, and Killian cannot think of one for this itself.

Red turning to black flashes against the back of his eyelids again, and he can’t suppress the shudder that rolls through his body.

His fingers idly play with the worn hem of his coat, rubbing the pads across the frayed leather. He trails them up, over the curve of Emma’s hip, across her waist, over her ribs, to the bend of her neck.

She’s shaking, he realizes, sweat beading along her skin.

“Emma,” he hisses, brushing her hair back from her face. Her eyes are clenched shut, teeth biting her lip hard enough that he can see the sheen of fresh blood. His stomach lurches, and he cups her cheek. “Emma, wake up. Wake up.”

She does with a start. Her eyes fly open and lock onto his face, tongue flicking out to taste the blood on her lip unconsciously.

“You were dreaming, darling. You’re all right. You’re safe.”

She whimpers, hands searching. They find his shoulders and slide up until they are locked behind his neck, bringing his face closer to her own.

“Not dreams—memories.”

Her eyes are so green, and he feels as though he is being swallowed whole by them, but her words anchor him to the ground; he can feel them in the marrow of his bones.

“You saved David. You helped save Henry.”

He feels like he is flying and drowning at the same time, and he wants to respond, knows that he should say something because she is looking at him like he’s done something incredible when he hasn’t, when he couldn’t even save her family this time, but she speaks again before he can find the words.

“ _Killian_.”

Then her lips are on his.

They’re chapped, rough against his. He freezes, eyes wide open. It's as though Emma can sense his hesitation because she pulls him down closer to her, unwrapping one of her hands from around his neck and interlacing her fingers with his. Killian’s eyes flutter shut and he melts, licking at the seam of her lips tentatively, tasting copper.

Emma opens her mouth to him at once, and he groans as he explores her, teeth scraping along the sensitive inside of her bottom lip, tilting his head so he can taste more, feel more of her.

She sits up, pressing his body back with hers, letting the coat between them drop to the leafy floor. Killian finds himself with his back pressed against the bark of the tree, Emma crawling into his lap and refusing to pull away from his lips for an instant, even to regain her balance when her knee slips on the grass a bit.

She pulls back, breathing harshly against his mouth and slides her free hand up into his hair, tugging, leaning back in and nipping his lips quickly, almost shyly. The hand that is still holding his presses against his chest, right over his heart, and she leans into him, trapping their fingers against the thud-thud of his racing pulse.

“Killian,” she mumbles again, and he surges forward with the word. Her breath is warm when it breaks across his skin, and flames are licking up his arms and legs. He pulls her closer to his body with his left arm and holds her there, terrified and anxious and daring to hope even for a moment that she might smile at him when they are done kissing instead of running away.

"Emma," he breathes, skin singing as he touches her.

It's like her name jolts her out of a haze. She practically throws herself away from him, and Killian misses her immediately; the warm press of her body to his, the taste of her on his tongue, the soft touches of her fingers over his heart.

"I'm sorry," she says, and scrubs at her eyes with the back of her hand. Her breath starts to hiccup, and she turns away from him. "I can't. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. We're just... we're in the middle of a war, and my son was kidnapped and we just watched two people die and they ripped their own throats out and we shouldn't be doing this."

"Emma, love..."

"No!" she shakes her head vehemently. "No, I just realized that I gave up my son when I could have kept him, when I  _should_ have kept him and now that I know what I missed and what that's like I have to save him because he needs to know that I love him and he needs to know that I'm sorry and that I'm going to be a better mother from now on."

Killian envelops her with his arms, and she doesn't resist. Emma turns her head and clutches at his shirt, tears wetting the dark fabric so it clings to his skin. He drops a kiss onto the top of her head and closes his eyes, nuzzling her hair. "I understand," he tells her. "I understand."

There is no warning, not a single noise from the forest around them before the loud _clash_  sounds and then Emma is being pulled away from him. Killian pants for breath, eyes opening to find four men standing above them. They are covered from head to toe in red, rusty armor, only slits in their helmets to allow them to see out of. One of them is holding Emma by the collar of her jacket, and she is hanging limp in his grip, blonde hair falling across her cheeks.

“No!” he cries, lurching up to his feet.

He doesn’t get very far. Without a word, one of the men brings up the hilt of his sword and cracks him across the skull with it.

Then it all goes black.


End file.
